


Forsaking All Others

by kataurah



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, No dragons, Romance, lords and ladies and knights oh my, repost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-01 15:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 55,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17246603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kataurah/pseuds/kataurah
Summary: After the Seven Kingdoms rose in rebellion against the ruthless king before him, Thelonious Jaha has sat on the iron throne and ruled in peace for five years. But when Lord Jacob Griffin suddenly and mysteriously dies, his daughter, Lady Clarke, has suspicions that may throw that peace into chaos, put her family and friends in danger, and test the loyalties of all those surrounding the King. Especially Ser Marcus Kane, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.“So many vows. They make you swear and swear… It’s too much. No matter what youdo, you’re forsaking one vow or the other.”- A Storm of Swords, George R R Martin





	1. Marcus

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of a fic I previously took down. I hope people will still like what I've written so far, and that I get around to continuing this story in the future.

The song of steel vigorously crashing together rang out across the courtyard of the Red Keep. Two dark haired men sparred together, one clad in the white armour of the Kingsguard, the other, younger, in common burnished grey, though surprisingly well fitted for a squire. Ser Marcus Kane fumbled his footwork and the boy took advantage, driving him back a little before he recovered.

“Good, Bellamy!” Marcus offered a rare, approving smile. The boy had come far. Well, he was a man now. A far cry from the street urchin he’d caught playing with his smith master’s steel in Flea Bottom all those years ago.

Marcus had looked at Bellamy then and had seen himself. Born into low circumstances with a head full of impossible dreams of becoming a knight. But a hedge knight had taken a chance on Marcus long ago and made him his squire, raised him above his station, because he had seen something worthy, something of honour. His master had no name, going only by Ser Pike, but he had taught Marcus everything he knew, and had knighted Marcus in the moments before he died, from wounds sustained in a mere roadside skirmish where they’d been outnumbered ten to two.

So when he saw young Bellamy Blake on the streets of King’s Landing, wielding that blade with clumsy yet fierce determination, Marcus wondered if he felt what Pike had felt that day. Approaching the lad hadn’t been easy, but Bellamy, like all the citizens of the realm, knew the mark of the King when he saw it, and knew that a man in a white cloak was such a mark. When Marcus remarked that Bellamy had shown potential with the sword, proposed that he take him on as his squire, Bellamy’s face looked torn.

“I… Ser, this is an honour… But surely there are high born boys that would be better - ”

“I don’t want some green as grass lordling following me around who’ll cry the first time he gets knocked in the dust. I don’t think that’s you, is it?”

“Get knocked down, get back up.” The boy had murmured, almost to himself. Marcus’ interest and intrigue was only peaked further.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Bellamy, m'lord. Bellamy Blake.”

“No need to call me Lord, Bellamy, I may be Lord Commander, but I am only a knight. “Ser” is just fine.“

Bellamy bowed his head, “Yes Ser…?”

Marcus smiled then, “Marcus.”

Bellamy gave a hesitant smile of his own, before it dropped, “I’m grateful, Ser, and honoured, but my sister, she is but eleven years old, and I cannot leave her.”

“You have no family? No mother?”

Bellamy grimaced, “My mother works the whorehouses, Ser, we are not like to see her but once, maybe twice, a month. I don’t believe she knows our father anymore than we do. The only reason Octavia is not made to work there too is because our mother has an arrangement with our master."

"Octavia is your sister?”

“Yes, Ser.” A look of real affection crossed Bellamy’s face, “Truth be told she’s far better with molten steel and a hammer than I am. Even Nygel says so.”

“Your master?”

“Yes. On his good days he thinks of Octavia as his apprentice. And I know it helps to have us tidy around after him, do the messy jobs. But there would be no guaranteeing O’s safety if I went with you.”

That admirable loyalty had only further resolved Marcus’ mind, and, after commanding Bellamy to take him to the smithy, he had struck up his own deal with Master Nygel, for almost everyone’s loyalties in King’s Landing could be bought if the price was higher than the one they were currently paid. To his credit Nygel seemed hard working and dedicated to his craft, eager to keep his head down and out of trouble, whoring and drinking aside, which seemed par the course for any man living in the streets of the capital. Marcus’ terms were these: that Bellamy would come with him back to the Red Keep, under his protection, where he would serve as his squire and maybe, one day, become a knight in his own right. Meanwhile, Marcus would pay a monthly stipend to ensure that Octavia was safe, clothed, fed, and continued to be trained as a smith. Bellamy would be free to visit his sister at any point in his own free time, and even the Lord Commander himself might drop in from time to time, to make sure these conditions were met. The implicit threat that if they were not was clear.

Octavia wept and clung to her brother when the time came that he had to depart.

“Bell, please! Please, don’t go! Don’t leave me, like ma!”

Marcus felt his heart break for them. The girl, dark haired and head strong like her brother, did not see the agony that contorted Bellamy’s face as she buried her own into his chest, arms tight around him as if, tiny though she was, she would fight the world if it dared take him from her.

“O, this is our best chance. This is our chance to be something more than anyone ever thought we’d be. No one ever believed in us, O, just you and me. But now Ser Marcus,” Bellamy looked over his shoulder to regard Marcus seriously, assessing, “He can make me a knight, O -” Octavia scoffed skeptically, “I know, I know, we only used to play at that, but this is real now! He’s the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard!”

At this Octavia’s eyes widened. Gone was the anger and bravado and disbelief, and all that was left was a dirty, scared little girl who clearly wanted to hope so badly. Marcus couldn’t help himself, he had to reassure her somehow. He stepped over to the siblings cautiously, aware of how each movement rattled his armour, the longsword at his side, his no doubt intimidating presence.

“Octavia?” The girl startled at being addressed by him directly. “Bellamy’s right. I want this to be the start of something better for you. For the both of you.”

“Why us?” There was the suspicion again. Marcus couldn’t blame her. He shrugged.

“Because you remind me of myself when I was your age. When I was poor and starving, and a knight took a chance on me.”

Bellamy started, “You’re not high born?”

Marcus smirked humourlessly, “Not remotely. And that will make it hard for you, harder than for those with privilege, I know. The training will be tough, and at least once a day you’ll probably want to punch me and curse me to the seven hells. And that’s just what my friends say about me.” Not that he had many friends, but it made Bellamy laugh. “So,” Marcus held out his hand, “Can you do it?”

Bellamy looked at his sister, and Marcus watched a silent conversation take place, before Octavia gave the tiniest of assenting nods, looking brave and resolved, and Bellamy Blake clasped Marcus Kane’s hand, like equals, “Hells yes, I can do it.”

_Hells yes, I can do it._

Several years later that young man was still there, right in front of him, swinging a sword at him with deadly grace, as though it were an extension of his own arm. Marcus did not think it conceited to feel a sense of pride in Bellamy’s swordsmanship, since he had been the one to train him from the beginning, aside from the manoeuvres he went through with the other squires in the training yards. But Bellamy had put the work in himself, he was responsible for the man he was today. Though, like Marcus had been at that age, he wondered if perhaps he might be too cocky for his own good.

Today he was angry, though Marcus had not had the chance to ask why, or whether it was directed at him. It was entirely possible, he’d freely admit. Bellamy’s internal conflict was distracting him however, and the second he lunged too far, leaving himself wide open, Marcus was there with his sword to his exposed throat. Bellamy dropped his sword and stepped back, panting and shaking his head at his own mistake.

“You’re always too aggressive,” Marcus said, catching his own breath and running a hand through his sweaty curls, usually tamed and tidy. “Once you lose a steady head, you lose yourself to your emotions and you make mistakes.”

“Yes, I know!” Bellamy snapped, before he caught Marcus’ reprimanding raised eye brow, “Sorry, Ser. It’s just harder for me to do what you do.”

“Which part?”

Bellamy huffed a laugh. “I’ll take you one day, you’ll see.” He sobered up again quickly though, “I can’t shut everything down like you can. I can’t stop the anger or the fear or… confusion.”

“Confusion?” Marcus frowned, but Bellamy was avoiding his eyes, “What do you mean? What is it that’s been bothering you all morning?”

Bellamy bit his lip, clearly wanting to get whatever was worrying him off his chest, but perhaps, Marcus guessed, having been sworn to secrecy. Finally he spoke.

“Lady Clarke came to me.”

The late Lord Griffin’s daughter, Marcus thought with a pang of sorrow. He’d known Jacob Griffin well, and through his duties of guarding the King and his family, he’d come to know Prince Wells’ betrothed rather well too. The lady was beautiful, and clever, very clever. Her mind was always alive in a way Marcus admired very much. Something that Clarke had gotten from her mother Abigail, Jacob had once told him.

Marcus had never met Lady Abigail, as she had remained at Griffin’s Point, the family homestead, in the years since Clarke and Wells’ betrothal and her husband’s appointment as Master of Laws, acting as Regent in Lord Griffin’s absence. He knew Clarke missed her mother dearly, her sadness clear when she looked to the skies from the top of the Maidenvault, hoping to see a raven with a message from Abigail. The drawings she would carry with her and work on throughout the day, of a beautiful, regal looking woman, with high cheek bones, tumbling hair in the northern style, and piercing eyes that could only be her lady mother. Marcus, deep in his heart of hearts, longed to meet her.

Yes, Clarke was artistic and creative, beautiful and intelligent, and anyone with eyes could tell that Wells Jaha was completely in love with her. The tragedy was Clarke did not love him back. At least not in the way he wanted her to. She had confided as much to Bellamy, the two of them the best of friends they could be given their difference in status.

And now, a month after her father had died suddenly, Lady Clarke had come to Bellamy and whispered tearfully that King Thelonious had poisoned her father and that if he knew Clarke knew the truth, the King would have her killed too. She’d asked him to sneak her away, out of the Red Keep, away from where the walls had ears, and he took her to a tavern _The Moon and Shine_ , owned by two friends he knew he could trust to say they never saw them there. If any part of him had doubted her before, once Clarke finished her grim tale, Bellamy trusted she was telling the truth. He knew her well enough to know she was sincere, and that she was absolutely terrified.

“She told me the King had Lord Griffin murdered!” Bellamy said, in the voice of a man that already believed the horrifying truth, but still begged for his Commander to show him the way.

Marcus crossed the space between them in the blink of an eye, his heart pounding in his chest, “What you’re accusing is treason, Blake. You’re both committing treason for even thinking it.” His tone was low but like unyielding steel, like the blade he now gripped far too tightly in his right hand. He had to be power, he had to be the law. In his fear for Bellamy and Clarke, he had to be ruthless. “And speaking out against the King out here for all to hear, is pure stupidity. If you want to keep your head on your shoulders and your sister safe, you’d best keep your mouth shut.”

The colour drained from Bellamy’s face. “My sis - You - You said you’d take care of her if anything hap -”

The pain threatened to well up, but Marcus had to push it down, lock it away. Octavia was like his own daughter, but right now he couldn’t let Bellamy see how much they meant to him.

“I made that promise to a man I trusted. Can I still trust you?”

Bellamy’s face twisted with indecision, fear for Octavia warring with the need to support his friend, who was otherwise heartbroken and alone.

He leaned in close and Marcus saw the fervour, the justification in his eyes, “I believe Clarke.” He hissed, “And if you don’t think there isn’t the slightest hint of suspicion or wrongdoing with everything that’s going on, and with Lord Griffin’s death, then you’re not the man I thought you were.”

He turned on his heel then and left Marcus stricken in place, sword still unsheathed, held idly at his side, with guilt rolling in his gut.


	2. Abby

It had been years since Abby had been south of the Neck. Long enough that she’d grown far too used to the weather up north and thought her daughter to be exaggerating how hot the summers could be in King’s Landing whenever she mentioned it in her letters. Clarke and Jake had been there for two years and there did not seem to be an end in sight for the long summer they were having. Walking through the city, stifling in it’s heat and it’s smells, Abby wondered how they could stand it. Though of course, they had no choice when they were there at the King’s command. Or had been…

Jake was gone. And it was such a strange feeling because he had barely been in her life at all these past two years, his absence was something she’d borne, and then gotten used to. But whereas she and Clarke never failed to write each other constantly in their time apart, correspondence with her husband seemed to have dwindled, then stopped almost completely in the past months. Abby mourned him, of course she did, but she could not escape the fact that she had already learned to live without him. With his death, and the allegations Clarke had dared to put to paper in her last letter about the circumstances surrounding it, Abby _had_ to go to her.

It had taken her too long to make preparations, leaving her brother with the charge of keeping Griffin’s Point, and to travel down south, that by the time she’d arrived in the capital, Jake’s funeral pyre was long burnt out. Still, her first visit before seeking out her daughter was to the Great Sept of Baelor, where she stood in the echoing silence and pictured Jake’s body where it had last lain. Abby stared at the seven statues that were supposed to look down upon her in judgement; these were not her Gods. She had whispered her own prayers and farewells to the Old Gods at the foot of the heart tree back home. No one else had borne witness to her tears, her grief for the man she’d fallen in love with what seemed so long ago, and she found this place held no  
meaning for her. What remained of Jake lay in Clarke and in the home they had shared.

As she and her entourage entered the Red Keep, they were met by Lord Wallace, the Master of Coin, and Abby, though she had only met the man once before, felt her skin crawl. Though they said his son was worse. She stonily nodded her head in greeting,

“My Lord.”

Wallace smiled, but it did not reach his eyes, “Lady Abigail. It is good to see you.” She didn’t believe it for a second. If she had her way, she would be heading back north in a heartbeat, taking her daughter with her. “We had received word you were making your way here, and the King has requested your presence in the throne room.”

Already, despite herself, she felt her stomach churning in nervousness, but Abby would not allow herself to flinch.

“I was hoping to see my daughter first. She’s still very upset, as you can imagine.”

“Soon, of course. I can assure you that Lady Clarke has been well looked after in this time of mourning. You must know the prince adores her.”

Abby tried her best to paint a gracious look on her face, “So I’ve heard, my Lord.”

Wallace gestured into the castle, “Come. The sooner the King is satisfied, the sooner you can see her.”

So she followed, feeling more and more as though she were walking straight into a pit of vipers, and only slightly comforted by the half dozen loyal men trailing behind her, guarding her back. There were a few lords and ladies of the court milling around on the balcony, but the King sat serenely upon the Iron Throne, mostly unattended save for two members of his Kingsguard and a woman in red robes hovering behind him. King Thelonious smiled at her in greeting, and it seemed for all the world to be genuine. She tried to recall the young lord she’d been acquainted with in her youth, back when it might’ve been him she’d been betrothed to if her father had been a more power hungry man and less caring about his daughter’s happiness.

She stopped at the foot of the steps before the throne and curtsied, “Your Grace.”

“Lady Abigail,” His tone too seemed warm, full of regard and sympathy, “Though I am pleased to see you once again, my Lady, I am sorry for the circumstances that have brought you here.”

“Thank you, your Grace.”

“Jacob was a good man. A good advisor.”

Abby tried to smile and nodded, feeling all the eyes of the court upon her now. She watched the lady in the red robes lean close to whisper something in the King’s ear, wondered who she was and what position she held that he permitted such a thing from her; noticed that the man in the white cloak nearest to her was watching the woman too, with a slight frown on his face, before he seemed to sense Abby looking at him and his gaze snapped to hers.

Her breath hitched, she felt a warmth bloom under her skin that had nothing to do with the southern heat, and she wondered where the instinctive reaction to this man had come from. He was undeniably handsome, thick brown hair that curled around his neck, falling stubbornly over his forehead; beard mottled with grey that she would’ve said suited his face. He was tall and imposing, held himself with a soldier’s bearing, and his dark eyes held hers with the same kind of curious intensity that was making her heart pound in her chest. Was this the Ser Marcus that Clarke had mentioned in her letters? The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard whom Clarke said showed her kindness and interest in her art and studies. Who had all but adopted two poor children and made the boy, Clarke’s best friend, his squire?

The interest stirring within her deepened, but she pulled her gaze away to regard the King once more, knowing she should be giving him her full attention. Her eyes had only wandered for a moment, but Thelonious seemed to have noticed, glancing between her and his guardsman.

“Your Grace,” She tried to steer his attention back to the conversation, “I was hoping you could tell me…” She drew a deep, steadying breath, “What exactly killed my husband? The letter was not clear.”

There was a beat of silence that was enough to arouse Abby’s suspicions, then the King answered, “I’m afraid it wasn’t clear because we do not know for sure.”

“You don’t -?”

“Your husband grew very ill very quickly,” the lady in red spoke up suddenly, surprising Abby and the court, it seemed, as hushed whispers echoed about the room. The King, however, seemed perfectly content to let this woman speak for him. “The speed with which his illness took him, we did not have enough time to diagnose him, let alone attempt a proper course of treatment.” The woman spoke in a strange detached tone, as though simply relaying information, rather than discussing a man’s death.

“You attended my husband?” Abby tried not to sound taken aback. The King clearly held this woman in some esteem. “I’m afraid we haven’t met?"

This is the Lady Aliesandre.” Thelonious spoke up, “Red Priestess of Asshai. My trusted council member.”

The whispers increased around her and Abby tried not to take a step back, dread and fear turning her stomach to lead. This woman was from a place far beyond the Seven Kingdoms and yet she was loyal to the King? She risked a glance at Ser Marcus and found him looking as uneasy as she felt.

_This_ woman had been at Jake’s deathbed? “My- My husband did not worship the Red God.”

The King smiled and shook his head, “Lady Alie is my maester for the time being. The Grand Maester passed away and the Citadel thought it fit to send a mere boy in training to fulfil his duties until a new one could be appointed.”

“I see.” Abby swallowed down the tremor that threatened to enter her voice. How had the red woman come to have so much power? “And it could not have been something…” She dared not say unnatural, not now. Tales of dark magic and superstition still came from Asshai. They still called that area of Essos the _Shadowlands_.

“Lady Abigail?” The King was frowning.

“You say Jacob’s illness was sudden… What if it wasn’t an illness?” She was playing with fire, given what Clarke believed about how her father had died. She pushed on quickly, “ _If_ my husband had enemies, would they not be your enemies, your Grace? What if someone was trying to get to you?”

The King was staring at her, calculating now. Gone was the pleasant calm that she had thought was a front from the beginning, but he remained inscrutable.

“You suspect foul play? And you suggest I have a _traitor_ amongst my court?”

His tone was hard yet controlled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ser Marcus shift in her direction. He had not moved until that moment, staying strictly still. She wondered what he was thinking, why he would move towards her rather than his King, whom she had just implied could be in danger, but she dared not look at him.  
She decided to back track, play the grieving widow, and bowed her head in deference to the King.

“I am sorry, Your Grace. I just wish I knew how my husband was taken from me so swiftly… And… I worry for your safety, too.”

When she looked up, the King seemed to have relaxed again, though the differences in his face and posture were minute. “I wish we all knew, my Lady. I wish I could give you some peace. And I thank you for your concern, but one does not sit upon this throne without gaining enemies all around him. I am well guarded.”

At this she allowed herself to look at Ser Marcus and found him staring at her, wide-eyed. She tore her gaze away again,

“Of course, your Grace.”

“Now, I imagine you wish to see your daughter.”

A sense of relief soothed the fear a little at the thought that this audience might soon be over, and that she would finally lay eyes on Clarke again after so long.

“Yes, Your Grace.” The gratitude in her voice was genuine.

The King nodded. “At once, then. Your men will be settled into guest rooms, and Ser Marcus will take you to Lady Clarke.”

The knight in question seemed as startled as she was for a moment (she, at the thought of being alone together), but they both quickly recovered. He started walking towards her, but she kept her eyes on the King, even as Ser Marcus’ sudden physical presence at her side had her stomach fluttering.

“Thank you, your Grace.”

Thelonious Jaha nodded. “You may go.”

And then they were walking, she following a step behind the Lord Commander. For a moment there was only tense silence, but Abby wanted to speak to this man, _know_ him, find out if he was all she had imagined from what Clarke had said of him. Despite the way he’d looked at her in the throne room when she’d brought up Jake’s possible murder. She wondered what he knew.

“I feel as though I already know you, Ser Marcus. Clarke speaks very highly of you in her letters.”

He slowed until she fell in step beside him and looked at her with pleasant surprise.

“Then you must know I have a high regard for Lady Clarke too. She has told me much about you as well. It is an honour to meet you, my Lady.”

“And you, Ser Marcus.” She smiled and he returned it, and Gods, he looked so much softer when he smiled, that stern edge to him had disappeared for a moment. “She has told you good things, I hope?“

He huffed a little laugh and she was all the more charmed, “She loves and misses you very much, my Lady. I must say I have come to admire and respect you from her stories alone.”

Abby was still smiling genuinely for the first time since she’d arrived, “And I, you, Ser.”

“Her drawings capture you beautifully.” There was that heat again, blooming in her chest and over her skin. She blushed and ducked her head for a moment, a smile still playing on her lips. Abby nodded and he continued, “She is an amazing artist.”

“Yes, she is.” Abby murmured quietly, her heart aching for her daughter. _So close, so close._ There was another beat of silence, more comfortable this time. Only the sound of their footsteps against stone steps, echoing down the corridor he lead her down.

“My Lady…” Ser Marcus began again. “You say you know me, from Lady Clarke’s letters? You believe I care about her and her safety?”

“Yes, Ser Marcus.” And it was the truth.

“Then I would advise against pressing the issue you brought up in front of the king.” Before she could react or reply, he continued, “The King is… He would make sure a traitor at court would suffer for their crimes. And I know he will not let the idea of it go.” Abby remained silent, processing this, her mind stuck on the word _suffer_ , and on Jake’s fate. “And I must ask… Lady Clarke… Did she say something…? He trailed off, and Abby felt her  
blood run cold.

Did he _know_? Had Clarke really been foolish enough to tell him too? And if he did know, he was clearly still doing the King’s bidding, then he was no better than Thelonious, and the King would know as well. But… She looked at him, and found she could not believe it of him. He cared about Clarke, and some instinctive feeling within her said even if he knew, he would not turn her over to the King’s mercy. He would perhaps try to reason with her, talk to her, or… talk to her Lady mother?

“Did she say something to _you_?” Abby asked, not acknowledging that she new anything, but if this man could read between the lines…

“No, but my squire did. Bellamy Blake, has Lady Clarke mentioned him to you?”

“Of course. He’s her friend. He’s the boy you took off the streets.”

Marcus started a little, perhaps surprised Clarke had told her that much. But he nodded, modestly. “Him and Octavia both. His sister.” Abby felt a warmth for him, then, growing more and more sure that he _must_ be a good man. “I trust Bellamy in that he believes what he is saying is true. He wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Clarke wouldn’t lie about this either.”

Ser Marcus raised an eyebrow, “Lie about _what_?” They had very carefully been avoiding saying it out loud, as if then they might maintain plausible deniability. But they had both admitted to knowing something. Something that Clarke had divulged to both Bellamy and Abby.

Abby glared at him, “Oh, I think we’re past that, Ser.”

He stepped in closer and drew her into an alcove with a gentle hand on her elbow, despite their tense conversation. His voice was a rough whisper, and she found herself shivering involuntarily.

“This is a dangerous path, my Lady. Lady Clarke has been through a great loss. Could she not be confused? Could she not just be looking for a reason where there is none? As _you_ would have the King believe of yourself?”

Abby felt the anger rising. She knew he was being reasonable, she knew he had Clarke’s best interests at heart. But if he knew Clarke, like he said he did, then he would know that Clarke was not one so easily confused, so likely to lose her wits even with such an emotional upheaval. Abby had faith in her daughter, and if her daughter believed it, though Abby desperately wished it wasn’t so, she believed too.

“And what if she’s right?” She hissed.

He shook his head, sharply, looking torn, “She can’t be. It _cannot_ be true. I _can’t_ …” He broke off, shaking his head again, and looked at her imploringly, uncertain and lost. “He is my King.”

Abby felt for him, and she prayed that when the truth came to light he would not sacrifice the good heart she believed he had for the sake of duty.

“Is that her room?” She nodded to a door across the corridor. He nodded. “Let’s ask her ourselves.”  
He sighed tremulously, and followed when she rushed to knock on the door. “Clarke? Sweetheart, it’s me, it’s mother.” Silence. “ _Clarke?”_ She continued to call her name, knocking harder, panic rising like a wave threatening to drown her. Until Ser Marcus reached out and turned the doorknob and the door swung open, unlocked, to reveal an empty room.

Clarke was gone.


	3. Octavia

Octavia was on her fifth shot of moonshine and feeling pleasantly merry, with Monty starting to slump across the table from her, when her brother snuck into the tavern with a cloaked companion that she knew, from the flash of long, blonde curls, could only be Lady Clarke Griffin. She didn’t react straight away, reason telling her that the hood over Clarke’s head and the protective hand Bellamy had wrapped around her shoulders meant something was wrong. She waited until Bellamy’s eyes searched out her own, and despite being sixteen and grown, a woman making her way in a man’s trade and surviving in King’s Landing all her life, she still felt small and helpless in the wake of the fear she saw on her older brother’s face.

She rose to her feet, steady, nodding in the direction of the back room beyond the bar, though there were very few patrons in that night. On the occasions Lady Clarke had accompanied her brother to _The Moon and Shine,_ though she had seized the opportunity to spend time with his circle of friends and appreciated the escape from high society, they frequently had to make use of the back room; being engaged to the prince made one rather recognisable. Octavia made her way to the bar stool her business partner was perched on, flirting with Jasper, and snagged her arm.

Raven raised an eyebrow,

“Problem, O?”

“Bellamy just came in with Clarke.”

Jasper frowned, “It’s nearly last call, she can’t be here this late. They’ll raise seven hells at the castle.”

“Believe me, I know. Something’s wrong. Bellamy looked…” She trailed off, shaking her head. She tugged Raven to her feet, “Come on,” then looked at Jasper, “Try and get this lot out quickly, lock up, and come round the back.”

“Just… make yourselves at home.” Jasper muttered.

“Drag Monty with you,” Octavia said, ignoring him. “Slap him awake if you have to. I have a feeling Bell needs us all.”

They found Bellamy and Clarke sat at the table, with a oil lamp between them and a glass of moonshine each, heads bent close and talking intently. Upon seeing them, Clarke rose to her feet and crossed the room, and Octavia found herself opening her arms, though she’d never embraced Clarke before. The other girl radiated distress, and Raven seemed to sense it too, wrapping a protective arm around her. Neither knew yet what had happened, but both seemed to come to the conclusion in that moment that, despite their differences in status, Lady Clarke Griffin was their friend in a way that was independent of Bellamy’s feelings towards her.

“It’s so good to see you both.” Clarke whispered, her usual strong demeanour wavering. “Up there, in the castle, it felt, for a while, like I had no friends in the world.”

Octavia was stricken by her words, “Clarke, what happened?” Clarke had implored them all, the first time they’d met, that they not refer to her as “Lady Clarke”. She’d clearly wanted that social barrier removed, had wanted to make friends without the constant reminder of her higher status, and insisted it wasn’t necessary.

Clarke drew back and, up close, Octavia could see the pallor of her skin, the dark circles beneath her eyes, the pain lingering behind them. "My father died.”

Octavia felt her heart go out to the other girl though she did not know her real father, and did not care to, Ser Marcus was the only guardian who had shown her affection, save for Bellamy himself. Before she could summon up inadequate condolences however, Clarke continued, “He was murdered by the King.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop and Octavia knew Raven, too, was struck speechless. Her mind reeled. She had no love for the monarchy, she did not make a secret of that, but this? The mere accusation was treason. And yet… despite her future being decided for her, and being tied to a prince she did not love, Clarke had never spoken out bluntly against the King before. Had never, it seemed, regarded him with anything but the requisite respect she should show for their ruler. Clarke had spoken firmly, even though her eyes gave away her fear. She was headstrong and sensible; she would not say such a thing if she did not believe it to be true.

“Clarke…” Raven started, uncertainly.

“How?” Octavia interrupted, and Clarke gave her a look full of gratitude and relief, perhaps purely given the fact that Octavia was open and willing to listen. She wondered how her brother had initially reacted, glanced at him to find him already looking back at her, gauging her reaction.

“He was poisoned.” Clarke said, continuing quickly and quietly, as though if she gave them pause they would start bombarding her with arguments and rationalisations. “I have no solid proof to give you cause to believe me, just what I saw of my father’s illness with my own eyes, and the word of a young maester who _came_ to me.”

“You trust this maester?” Raven asked.

“We don’t know him,” Bellamy replied, “He has only been in the city for a couple of weeks.”

Clarke glared at him, “I don’t see what reason he has to lie. The Citadel do not accept stupid boys into maester training. With no connections or friends in King’s Landing, he would know he wouldn’t be believed easily. The Grand Maester died suddenly, but he was an old man and no one thought to be suspicious, and the red priestess took his place. And now the King has all but appointed her his Hand,as well. I don’t understand it, but…” She swallowed as grief crept it’s way into her voice, “My father must have known something. _Said_ something to the King. Spoken against him…” Octavia watched her frowning, thinking desperately, trying to figure it out, then looking to each of them again, imploringly, “I am not a maester, nor is my mother, not officially, you know they won’t let _women_ …” She shook her head in disgust, and Octavia felt that familiar flare of anger too. “But we had no maester at Griffin’s Point when I was growing up, because my mother took care of any ailments. She learned from her maester as a girl and I have learned from her, and I have _never_ seen nor heard of any sickness that kills as quickly as whatever killed my father.”

It was a lot to take in, and Octavia felt as though Clarke had given them small pieces of a much larger puzzle and they did not have enough to piece together even an idea of the whole picture. But this knowledge alone was dangerous enough, and it threw everything into chaos in her mind.

It meant that the King that had overthrown a ruthless ruler to bring justice back to the Seven Kingdoms was no longer the same man. It meant that Ser Marcus might not be the good man she thought she knew; that Bellamy had pledged his service to murderers and liars. She could not believe it of Ser Marcus. Not until she heard him tell her himself that he still trusted and defended the King.

“And the young maester you mentioned?” Raven asked, looking from Clarke to Bellamy, “What did he see?”

“Murphy saw the red woman take poison from the maester’s quarters. The tears of Lys. He had been studying at the back of the room and she appeared not to notice him. Or she didn’t care. He said my father’s symptoms matched what he knew of the poison’s effects.”

The silence that fell was thick with all the things unsaid in Clarke’s tale, all the things still unknown to them. Each person was lost in their own thoughts for a moment, trying to make sense of it all. Which was why they all jumped at Jasper’s interruption,

“You know, you really should have made sure the door was shut properly before you had this conversation.”

He reluctantly stepped into the room, with a now very sober looking Monty. Octavia scowled,

“You know you could have just come in, I invited you, you didn’t have to eavesdrop.”

“It was kind of tense in here, and believe me, I wish I hadn’t either, now. I wish I hadn’t heard a damn thing.” He looked pale and shaky. He and Monty, both.

“This is all…” Monty was lost for words, Octavia knew how he felt. “Clarke, I’m so sorry.”

Octavia realised, with a pang of guilt, that he was the first person to say it.

Clarke nodded her thanks to him and offered a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The clang of the lock on the door then, as Jasper slid it into place, was like a switch that suddenly changed her whole demeanour.

“Octavia.” Clarke said urgently, and Octavia was quick to look at her. There was something in her tone, something that stirred a mix of anticipation and anxiety in Octavia’s chest. Clarke’s eyes were bright, alive, for the first time since she had entered the tavern, it was like she was thrumming with nervous energy, and Octavia imagined she could see the wheels turning inside the other girl’s head. “Octavia, tell me again about Lexa Trigeda.”

That blind sided her, “ _What_?”

The tale of Lexa Trigeda, the lost queen and rightful heir to the iron throne, was something that spoke to Octavia’s (not so) inner warrior. The idea that a woman, a _queen_ , had returned to Westeros, returned from exile with the remnants of her family, to fight and conquer and rule the land as she saw fit. It had captured Octavia’s imagination and she had regaled Clarke with it several weeks ago, way into her cups and full of enthusiasm.

“Clarke there are more impor -”

“This _is_ important! I promise you.” She faced each of them in turn, whatever idea she had in her mind growing into fervency, “Octavia, tell me the story again. Tell me everything you know. Everything you’ve heard? Have you heard anymore news since I saw you last?”

“Clarke, none of it is _news_. They’re just stories and rumours that change or get embellished every day!”

“ _Octavia_ …” Raven was looking at her, nodding, looking puzzled but still encouraging, wanting to know where this was going. She had loved the idea of Lexa just as much as Octavia had. Octavia thought it was perhaps because they were mocked everyday for working in a trade that was only ever dominated by men. The entire realm, of course was controlled by men, and Octavia and Raven had found each other because they so vehemently riled against it. (That, and a shared love of making weaponry.) How different the world would be if a woman sat upon the throne.

Octavia sighed, “All the same things as before. After years away she has come ashore with an army to fight the King."

"An army large enough to take on the realm when the King calls his banners?” Her brother raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“They say there are _plenty_ of people and Houses still loyal to Trigeda. The people may have ended up hating her father but they loved Princess Lexa.” Octavia argued.

“And where do _they_ say she came ashore?” Clarke asked, gaining momentum now that the others were no longer dismissing the subject out of hand.

Octavia shrugged, “It varies every time I hear people talk about it.”

“Fine. The talk, the rumours. Where does it say she is?”

“Popular opinion says Dorne.”

Clarke smiled then, like that was the answer she’d been expecting.

“Alright, if I’d had to guess what the follow up conversation to what I overheard would be, this would really _not_ be it!” Jasper was looking at all of them like they were mad, “Why exactly does any of this matter?”

“I think we’d all like to know that.” Bellamy said, crossing him arms. Octavia would have been lying to herself if she didn’t have an pretty good idea of where Clarke was heading, and her heart was pounding in anticipation. She wanted to hear Clarke say it.

“I’m going to find Lexa.”

The room erupted cacophony of protests:

“Are you _insane?”_ Jasper was clearly reaching the end of his patience.

“Like hells you are!” Bellamy growled.

The rational part of Octavia, the part that was also deeply afraid of everything Clarke was saying, felt the need to speak up, too, “Clarke, it’s all rumour! We don’t now if she’s in Westeros. We don’t even know if she’s alive!” Octavia only realised she’d said “we” after she’d said it, like her heart had already decided to go.

“You said word was spreading. Tales from the east, from sailors who have been from Braavos to the Blackwater, and now whispers of her name have travelled from the south to the Reach and through the Riverlands.”

“You’re suggesting we go to _Braavos?_ ” Bellamy looked at Clarke like he didn’t know who she was anymore, “Seven hells. Clarke!”

“No, not Braavos. That would be a last resort.”

Octavia almost wanted to laugh at the outrage in her brother’s voice, “ _A last_ -?”

“Just south of the Reach is Highgarden, yes?” Octavia had no idea. She had never had the means to travel beyond King’s Landing, even though she had dreamed of running away all her life. The thought of the rest of the world out there, the size of it, enthralled and terrified her. Clarke blew past the lack of response, “Highgarden was once the seat of House Trigeda, the family home, long before any of them sat on the iron throne. Her father’s was place was in court, of course, but Lexa would have lived in Highgarden for most of her life.”

“So… We go to Highgarden.” There was that _we_ again, this time from Raven.

“Ah!” Clarke glanced at Raven, smiled and shook her head slightly, “House Floudon of Dorne were the last to bend the knee, and only when the King was ready to declare war on Dorne. Even now, they are part of the Seven Kingdoms, but they have their own royalty. Their own ways and customs. Much like we do in the north.” Her smile softened and for a moment Octavia knew she was thinking, longing for home. “Dorne’s loyalties do not truly lie with the King. Everybody knows, but nobody says it.”

“House Floudon is still loyal to House Trigeda.” Octavia stated.

“Yes. And if I were Lexa, sailing an army across the Narrow Sea, I’d want to have someone I trust to meet me on the other side.”

“And a safe place to make harbour.” Octavia added, nodding along with Clarke now.

“Clarke…” It was Bellamy now, firm but worried, “You can’t just -”

She rounded on him, “There is nothing left for me here! Don’t you understand? I’ve already run, there’s no turning back. If you march me back up there, the King will kill me because he will know why I ran!” Her faced drained of what little colour it had, “And he will kill you, too for helping me.”

Octavia felt sick, felt her entire body go cold. There was no choice now, and her brother would have to come with them. Clarke looked anguished, and from Bellamy’s face, Octavia could tell it had shaken him, too.

“What about your mother, Clarke?” He asked, gently.

“I left to keep her from being dragged into this. When Murphy told me the truth it was too late to stop her from coming here.”

“But she is here, Clarke, back up in that castle! If the King now thinks two Griffins have betrayed him, if he’s capable of what you say he is, what do you think he will do to her?”

“Oh God…” Clarke covered her mouth with her hands as if she could smother her fear, her tears, a scream.

Octavia thought about her literal knight in shining armour who had saved her and her brother, “Ser Marcus won’t let anything happen to her! I know he won’t. You know him too, Clarke!”

“O…” Bellamy sounded sad.

“ _No_ , Bell, he isn’t involved with whatever the King is doing! He can’t be!” Octavia stared at him and Bellamy stared back, and she could almost hear every fear and doubt floating through his mind. The memories of trusting the wrong people before, when they were young. Of their mother leaving them again and again. Octavia tried to pour all of her defiance and unshakeable belief into her gaze and saw her brother slump, defeated.

“So what do we do?” He murmured.

“The only way is forward.” Clarke said, “If we look back we’ll be lost.”

“We go to our smithy,” Raven announced suddenly, as if she’d been sitting back and planning throughout the whole argument. She nodded to Octavia, “We get weapons, armour. Any money, food, provisions.”

I have money.” Clarke said. “We should buy horses only once we get out of the city. We need to draw as little attention to ourselves as possible.”

“Which means you will need to change your clothes.” Octavia said to Clarke, waving a hand at the gown she was wearing, entirely too fine and impractical for travelling, despite the cloak she wore to cover it. Octavia and Raven only ever wore breeches and a tunic, they could hardly hammer away at molten metal all day in dresses and corsets.

“Of course.” Clarke said, practical as always.

“Is this really happening?” Monty shook his head incredulously, “I haven’t fallen asleep in a drunken stupor and dreamed that you idiots are planning on overthrowing the kingdoms?”

“Apparently.” Bellamy sighed, standing and squaring his shoulders, his unconscious movement that signalled he was ready for action. Clarke looked at him,

“You aren’t going to stop me, then?”

“Clearly both you and my little sister are ready to get yourselves killed chasing after a myth. All I can do is follow and try and make sure that doesn’t happen.” He smirked, and added derisively, “My _lady_.”

Octavia wanted to declare that she could take care of herself, but she had no experience compared to what they were about to do. Having Bellamy at her side was always a comfort she could draw great strength from.

Clarke turned to the duo standing silently and awkwardly near the door, “Jasper, Monty -”

“Whoa, absolutely not!” Jasper started, panicked.

Clarke actually huf ed a small laugh, “I’m not expecting you to come with us.”

They both visibly sagged with relief, Octavia rolled her eyes at no one in particular, but then Monty spoke up in that quiet, earnest way of his, “What do you need, Clarke?”

Clarke smiled softly, full of gratitude again for her friends, “I need you and Jasper to find an apprentice maester named Murphy. And I need you to give him a message for my mother.”


	4. Marcus II

From the moment he had first met her eyes during her audience with the King, Marcus found himself drawn to Lady Abigail's presence; reacting instinctively to her quiet strength that belied the emotional whirlwind that he somehow knew lay beneath her composure. The whirlwind had burst forth now, with her daughter's absence.

“She should be here, shouldn't she? Is there anywhere else she might be?” She made to hurry past him, back down the corridor, but Marcus reached out to her, not thinking about propriety and only to calm her in that moment, and his fingers caught her elbow. She jumped at the touch, but did not pull away, even though anxiety radiated through her.

“My Lady, you shouldn't panic.” He tried to instil confidence in his words, and tried to keep his own worry well hidden, “Lady Clarke was instructed to be here to meet you, but you know her. In all likelihood she is immersed in some pursuit or another, and time has gotten away from her.”

Abigail nodded, though her eyes still darted about, as though Clarke might materialise from the wall behind him. “We will find her.” He caught her eyes, golden brown and full of worry, and the reassuring smile came to him easily then. He had the rest of the Kingsguard and the gold cloaks of the city watch at his disposal if need be. He prayed that it wouldn't come to that.

His fingertips were still unconsciously brushing Abigail's arm as he lead her back towards the open areas of the court, and she fell into step beside him, the soft rustle of her skirts contrasting with the small clinks of his armour as they moved.

“She's probably drawing...” Abigail murmured, and at first Marcus wasn't sure if she was talking to him or to herself, but then she turned to him, “She used to miss meals sometimes, she wouldn't realise how long she'd been working.” Her gaze was distant and fond, not really looking at him but into her memory, and he found he did not mind in the slightest. There was a wistful, yearning look on her face as she talked about her daughter, so different from the composed woman who had first entered the throne room, and Marcus felt a sense of wonder at how he had quickly earned the privilege of seeing a little of Abigail's heart. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to locate Clarke and return her to her mother.

His gaze lingered on her long enough, tracing the crease of worry in her brow and the firm line of her lips as she held herself together, that when he said, “If we find the prince we will likely find Lady Clarke.” he did not notice the prince already walking towards them.

“I wish that were so, Ser Marcus.” Wells Jaha said, looking agitated and troubled, flanked by two Kingsguard. Marcus and Abigail drew up short, startled.

“Prince Wells?” Abigail stepped closer, and Wells' frown lessened just a little as he looked at her with genuine fondness.

“You are Lady Abigail. Clarke's mother.” Abigail bowed her head to him, but Wells, his eyes flicking urgently to Marcus', seemed to be passing over the formal greetings. “Ser Marcus, my lady, I cannot find her. I have not seen her since breakfast this morning, and she seemed...” He struggled for words, and Marcus watched Abigail grow pale, “She obviously has not been herself since her father... But she seemed so _afraid_ this morning. She was distracted. Jumping at the slightest thing.”

“Oh Gods...” Abigail's hand flew to her mouth and Marcus knew what she was thinking, the knowledge they had both hinted at but not spoken aloud: the danger that Clarke could be in for telling those closest to her what she believed had happened to her father. His own stomach felt like lead, the urge to comfort and protect both Griffin women rose strongly within him.

“We should alert the city watch,” Marcus said; he needed to take action, and swiftly. “You have searched the whole Keep, your Grace?”

“Wells.” The prince automatically corrected him, as he always did, “And I have already done both, yes.”

It suddenly occurred to Marcus that he had not seen Bellamy either since their sparring and whispered argument that morning. Suspicion stirred in his gut. “Have you seen my squire?”

Wells frowned at the mention of Bellamy. Marcus had always thought Wells a little jealous of the attention Clarke paid Bellamy, though he usually hid it well. “No, I haven't, Ser. Do you believe Clarke could be with him?”

Before Marcus could reply, there was a call from across the hall, “Lord Commander!” Ser David Miller, his fellow Kingsguard was marching towards them determinedly. For a moment Marcus was glad to see him, Ser David was always a man he'd been able to trust and rely on.

“David,” He greeted, “Are you aware of the situation? Of Lady Clarke's disappearance?”

“I am...” David hesitated, then his gaze shifted to Abigail with a hardening resolve, “But I am here for Lady Griffin.”

Despite his confusion, Marcus' instinctive reaction was to step in front of her, placing himself between her and the other knight, “What do you mean?”

It was Marcus' duty to keep an eye on the comings and goings of those in the Red Keep. Commands passed down from the King directly to him, and then to his men. He did not like being in the dark.

"The King has ordered her arrest." Something in Marcus had expected the words before they came, but they still caused a surge of anger and sorrow, that his King was choosing to take the action Marcus had dreaded he would with Clarke. In his periphery, Abigail began to step forward defiantly and he threw an arm out to stop her, to keep shielding her. It didn't stop her from speaking out.

"Why?" Her voice betrayed no fear, stony and composed. She had locked herself back down again. "I have done nothing to warrant it, Ser."

"I do as my King commands, my Lady." David was unyielding and his words resonated in Marcus, whose ordered sense of loyalty and honour was quickly unravelling. It felt as though he had spoken those words too often of late with this same conflicted feeling in his gut: this was wrong.

Inevitably, Ser David and the other knights the prince had brought with him, looked to their Lord Commander for support, frowning as he still blocked their way.

"This isn't... I should speak with the King..." Marcus' protest was weak to his own ears.

"His Grace did not leave room for doubt." David was staring at him as though he did not know him, "These are _your_ orders, Lord Commander."

The use of his title pulled at those ties with which Marcus was bound to his King, forged with vows and years of service, as David knew it would. He finally turned to look at Abigail, who gazed back at him with a resigned look that was understanding yet somehow betrayed all the same. Guilt tied his stomach in knots, and again his conscience rose to the surface, this time speaking in Jacob's voice, ringing in his ears: _this is wrong._

Take her to her rooms then." Marcus said softly, finding he could no longer look at her, "Keep her under guard."

He stepped away and David made to take Abigail's arm. She shook him off and walked into the throng of guards, head held high.

"I was instructed to take her to the black cells." Ser David said, already marching her away before Marcus could protest anew; that she was a highborn lady, that she had been accused of no crime and deserved the courtesy and respect befitting her station. But until he could see the King, his hands were tied, unless he wanted to get locked up himself. He decided that the best way to help Lady Abigail would be by doing just that and began walking towards the royal apartments in Maegor's Holdfast. As he walked, his mind was chasing Jake's voice back to the last real conversation they had shared, before he had fallen ill.

_Jake opened the door to Marcus and ushered him into his rooms, glancing out into the corridor before closing it again. He had a wild look in his eyes like Marcus had never seen before today. He had been wearing it earlier when he'd asked Marcus to come to his rooms to discuss “an urgent matter.”_

_“Are you going to tell me what's wrong?”_

_“Marcus, do you trust me?” Jake was almost whispering, his paranoia was disconcerting and Marcus was growing more worried by the second. No one ever asked that question lightly._

_“Are you about to tell me something that will make me doubt you?”_

_“Yes, I am.” He gave Marcus a grave look. “I am trusting you with what I'm about to say and I'm relying on faith in our friendship that my trust is not misplaced.” He drew a breath, running a hand over his face. Marcus simply waited for him to continue. “All this and... I don't know how to say it. It's the King.”_

_Marcus felt a sense of foreboding, “The King?” He prompted, anyway._

_“He has been holding private audiences. I know that you have stood guard outside whilst he_   
_conducts them.”_

_“I do as the King commands.” Was all Marcus could say, because now he knew where Jake was heading, knew what was coming, and he would have to face up to the things he had tried to ignore and deny out of duty. His vows echoed in his mind: protect the King, serve the King, keep his secrets..._

_“I know the Lady Aliesandre is present. I know he's referring to them as trials. As Master of Laws you would think that he would involve me in this sudden new procedure.”_

_“Jake...”_

_The other man took a step forward, anger creeping into his voice, “Did you know it's not just criminals locked in the black cells? He has summoned people here at court... Have you heard the screams?” Marcus looked away from the righteous fury on his friend's face, the same sickening horror washing over him as he'd felt standing outside those trials. He felt guilty, as though whatever acts the King was committing were his own sins. He was complicit. “Marcus...” Jake softened again, “What is he doing?”_

_Marcus shook his head, his own voice coming out choked and hushed, “I don't know.” He met Jake's eyes again, hoping his friend would see that it was the truth._

_“You are a good man, Marcus, I know this isn't what you want.”_

_He was right, of course, but the part of Marcus that had fought beside Thelonious Jaha for the good of the kingdoms still wanted to believe in him. “The King has the ultimate decision of the outcome of a trial, anyway.”_

_“Not like this, Marcus. You must know this is wrong. There should be a jury. Hells, all have a right to trial by combat, to put themselves at the mercy of the Gods.”_

_“He is my King. I vowed to serve him.”_

_“Marcus, he thinks he is a God!”_

_That statement broke through any kind of internal conflict Marcus was feeling and he looked at Jake incredulously, “You cannot be serious?”_

_“The promises and prophecies the red woman has whispered in his ear... She has him in her thrall. He believes her.” Jake was rambling now, and Marcus shook his head. This was too far._

_“I don't know where you've gotten these notions from, but you are wrong, Jake.” He turned to leave, “You're my friend. Say nothing more and this won't go beyond this room.”_

_“Marcus, this has to stop.” Jake gave him one last pleading look before Marcus was gone._

As Marcus approached the door to the King's private chambers, nodding to the guards on duty, he knew he would be a fool to remain blind to what was happening. He had heard the doubts of people he trusted and cared about. Clarke was scared enough that she had ran. At least Marcus hoped she had, and that the King was not responsible for her disappearance. Jake was dead, and if he'd been right, an insanity had taken root in Thelonious Jaha that put them all in great danger.

Abigail most of all, now.

But he could not break the vows he had sworn without hearing it from the King himself. His honour as a knight, and as a logical, rational man, would not allow him to. So he took a deep breath and knocked, hearing the King's ever calm, "Enter." He was sat at his desk, his eyes closed at first, as though in a meditative state. But he opened them and regarded Marcus steadily, with a hint of warmth, as he always had, "Marcus. I'm to take it Ser  
David relayed my orders swiftly?”

Cutting to the chase then. Marcus swallowed, "Yes... But, your Grace -"

"I did wonder how much of an impression she would have made on you." King Thelonious smiled, condescendingly, "She is a singular woman, I have always said so. You question my decision, Lord Commander?"

Marcus hesitated, "I only wish to ask why, your Grace."

There was a pause, and Marcus felt pinned beneath the King's stare as though he were being weighed and measured. _Judged_.

"I think you already know, Marcus. Why don't you ask me for the truth you really seek? Ask me about Lord Jacob."

His stomach dropped as though the earth had fallen away beneath him. The King was so calm, not a hint of guilt, and yet the phrasing was still ambiguous. It could be a trap if his only goal was to make Marcus confess to treacherous thoughts and to the words spoken by his squire and the Griffins. He had to choose his own words very carefully. He would play ignorant, determined that the King would be the only one to damn himself in this conversation.

"What about Lord Jacob, your Grace?"

"How he died, Ser Marcus."

"How..." His heart thundered, "How did he die, your Grace?"

"I had him killed." The truth was chilling, spoken with the absolute surety of a man who knew he held all the power. "But you knew that already, Marcus." The King stood and circled his desk, bringing them face to face. Marcus felt the fight or flight response stirring in his blood, his hand itching to grasp his sword. The King continued, "You know because Clarke Griffin knows. Though I must confess I do not know how she found out. You know because she told her mother and Bellamy Blake. Now Clarke and your squire are gone, and that is why Lady Abigail is in a cell at this moment." Marcus remained silent, words had escaped him in the horror that was crashing over him. He wondered if he was damning himself by not speaking, he wondered what the King saw on his face. "The difference between you and them, Marcus, is that you have not turned your back on me without coming to me, first. You are here to hear it from my own lips, and I admire that."

His tone was unreadable, deceptively pleasant, but Marcus could remember him, after storming King's Landing together, telling King Titus that he would have admired him more if he had met Thelonious on the field of battle himself. Right before he ran Titus through with his sword and took the iron throne. It seemed now like Thelonious might become a worse ruler than his predecessor.

“I had to.” Marcus affirmed, somehow managing to keep his voice steady.

“I knew you would come to me eventually. The truth will be hard to comprehend but I know you will see it in time. You _are_ loyal. Lady Alie sees many things in the flames and she has seen that much. You have served me these past five years. You are my councillor, my friend. I know you will look into the fire and see the truth.”

The last phrase stirred something in Marcus' memory, something from long ago when he was only a child. He repeated it, frowning, “Into the fire...”

“Yes.” King Thelonious smiled, “It is a test of faith, Marcus. I am the Red God, R'hllor, made flesh and my fire will cleanse this world of the faithless. Lady Alie has shown me the truth in the flames.”

The truth hit Marcus like a bolt of lightning, illuminating everything in terrible clarity. Everything Jake had said, the screams... The King's mind had been overtaken by the promises of the red priestess and Marcus _knew_ : they were _burning_ people alive. The world was spinning into a nightmare. He felt sick, he felt fear, and guilt, _overwhelming_ guilt. How many could he have saved from this horrific fate if he had just given Jake a chance to prove his allegations? If he had trusted his friend? He stared right through the King and instead saw Abigail's face as she had allowed him to see her, honest and open and afraid for her daughter. Knowing now what  
punishment undoubtedly awaited her, he had to save her. He had to stop this. He had to... get out of this room alive.

“You will prove your loyalty, Marcus?”

For the first time, Marcus outright lied to his King. Swallowing the bile that threatened to rise in his throat, he bowed. “As your Grace commands.”

Approaching footsteps abruptly cut through the tension of the room, as Marcus looked up and saw Prince Wells round the corner from where the corridor lead further into the royal apartments. He realised, with a rush of shame, that he had completely abandoned the prince earlier, outside Clarke's quarters when Abby had been arrested, and that Wells had witnessed the whole thing.

His brow was drawn tight in anxiety, his jaw clenched as he stared at his father, and Marcus wondered then if he had heard their conversation...

“Wells?” The King's voice suddenly held some emotion, which had been entirely absent since Marcus had entered the room. He looked back and saw a confused frown on Thelonious' face, almost as though he was fighting himself on something. A flash of guilt passed through his eyes when he looked at his son. Perhaps, Marcus thought, Wells was the only part of him that had not yet been corrupted by Alie; the only thing still keeping him tethered to this world.

“I need to speak to Ser Marcus, father.” Wells seemed to take advantage of the King's momentary confusion, speaking firmly, “I am sorry to interrupt, but it cannot wait. Ser?” He turned to Marcus and gestured out the door. Marcus looked to the King, still not daring to walk out without being dismissed. It would look too much like running. But the King only glanced at him and nodded distractedly, so Marcus bowed again and walked quickly from the room with the prince falling in line beside him.

They did not speak until they had left Maegor's Holdfast altogether, and Wells kept his voice low, not looking at Marcus, slowing their pace to a leisurely stroll,

“Clarke is gone. We need to find her. Tell me what I can do, Ser.”

“Wells...” Marcus quietly followed his lead, “How much did you hear...?”

“I heard enough.” His clipped sentences told Marcus he was trying to hold himself together under the weight of Clarke's disappearance and what he'd overheard.

They reached the grounds, the sun beating down on them overhead, reflecting off of Marcus' white armour blindingly, and came to a halt. Marcus looked at him, weighing his options. He knew how deep the prince's love for his betrothed ran, he had seen it everyday for almost as long as Clarke had been in King's Landing. Wells' heart was honest and true in a way Marcus had never known the King's to be. He was compassionate and giving, strong and determined. Marcus had thought for a long time that he would make a good king, when the time came. It had come sooner than anyone would have thought.

“If you want to help Clarke, you can help me save her mother.”


	5. Abby II

The black cells were entirely what she'd expected they'd be. Abby had walked down the stone stairs, and the darkness seemed to rise up and swallow her whole. She had descended and wondered if she'd ever see the light of day again. The flickering torches carried by the guards who lead her to her cell were the only things that gave her any sense of her surroundings. She wished they hadn't. It was filthy and damp; she passed other cells with indistinct forms huddled on the floor. It was the smell, though, that was the most oppressive thing: sweat and blood, rot and death; bodies flung to the depths beneath the Red Keep and forgotten.

The bars slammed home and she stood in the centre of the cell, unwilling to go near the grime coating the walls, watching Ser David cast her one more grim look, almost apologetic, before he left and took the light with him. Abby was suspended in darkness and all her other senses sharpened, alerting her to every cough and moan from other prisoners, every scratch of rats scurrying across the floor. The chill swept through her bones, the stench over powering, and in the dark her imagination conjured up visions of ghosts breathing against the back of her neck, people lurking a hairs breath away, watching her shiver, blind and afraid.

She thought of Clarke and wondered if she was even alive. Was she hidden away? Did she have a friend she could trust in Bellamy Blake? And if so, just how long would he be able to protect her? She thought of Jake and his fate: what knowledge had he been killed for? What possible threat had he posed? And she thought of Marcus, and the way he had made her feel safe, that she had someone to rely on in this dangerous place, if only for a short time.

Panic was a bubble ready to burst inside her chest, and she had to swallow down a sob. If she started to cry she knew she would not stop.

Abby didn't know how long she stood there, unwilling to show weakness even though there was nobody to witness the exhaustion creeping over her, the trembling in her legs as the strain of standing grew too great; the shaking of her limbs from lack of food and water, and the cold, damp chill permeating the air. Eventually her knees gave way and she collapsed to the filthy ground, hands clutching her skirts as they billowed out around her in order to avoid touching whatever foulness she'd landed on. Still she did not cry. She would not call for help or for mercy, nor would she confess to sins she had not committed.

The dark was eternal and unforgiving. In her mind it was an inky, insidious liquid, rising up and invading her, filling her mouth and drowning her so that she could not cry out even if she broke down and wanted to.

Then suddenly, after what seemed like forever, there was a flickering light and almost silent footsteps.

"My Lady?" There came a whisper. Abby did not recognise the voice. "Lady Griffin?"

"Hello?" Abby's voice sounded strained from fear and disuse.

The footsteps came closer and then the light was blinding for a moment, but, oh, how she welcomed the heat of the flame. She scrambled to her feet, and pressed herself to the bars of her cell, seeking the warmth. The man holding the torch was wearing a maester's robes, the hood pulled over his head, and a chain with only a few metal links. An apprentice, then, she thought, and when the light cast his face in relief she saw he was only a little more than a boy. He could have been Clarke's age.

"My lady I must be quick." He whispered.

"Who are you? Why are you here?"

"I am a maester. Well, not- not quite yet." He ducked his head self consciously, "I'm here because your daughter sent me."

" _Clarke?_ " Abby couldn't contain the emotion from her voice, the overwhelming relief and desperation. "You've seen Clarke? She's alive?"

"Last I saw her I told her the truth of her father's death." Abby wanted to interrupt, to ask him what he'd seen, how he knew, how it was that Clarke had trusted him, but the boy continued before she could speak, "I know you must have questions, but there isn't time. I was sent with a message from Clarke's friends. The one's who are helping her."

"Bellamy Blake?"

"And others." The boy nodded, "People she trusts. She wanted to tell you that she's leaving King's Landing."

Relief and fear warred inside Abby; her baby was escaping the heart of evil and corruption, but where would she go? The King's men would be hunting her down already and Griffin's Point would be the first place they'd expect her to go. How long could a handful of children protect themselves and each other?

She forced herself to take a calming breath, keeping her voice to barely a whisper, "Did she say where she was going?"

The boy shifted uncomfortably, sighing and rolling his eyes. "It's insane, if you ask me."

"Where?!" Her voice echoed down the passageway, impatient, and the boy flinched, looking around wildly as though expecting the guard to descend upon them at any moment. Abby put out her hands, placatingly, "I'm sorry."

"Lexa Trigeda." The boy said, shortly, "You've heard of her?"

Of all the things Abby had imagined he might say, this ground her mind to a halt.

"The- the princess? King Titus' daughter?" The conversation had taken a completely unexpected turn and Abby struggled to see how any of it had any connection to what was happening. "They said... she hasn't been seen or heard of for five years. She was thought to be dead."

"Rumour says differently."

" _Rumour?"_ Abby asked, incredulously.

"The whole land is whispering of Queen Lexa's return. And Clarke has gone to find her."

"Clarke has..." Abby had to clutch the bars to steady herself. Her head was spinning with confusion as she struggled to make sense of what she was hearing. "But how could she -? Where would she even look?" This was _her Clarke_ ; her brilliant, headstrong, intuitive Clarke, and somehow, just like when she had told Abby of Jake's murder, Abby found a spark of faith flare to life within her heart, against all logic and reason. If nothing else, she believed in Clarke. But even if her quest turned out to be a lost cause, Abby could not let her do it alone.

"How did you get in here?" She demanded, prepared to ask if he could get her out, though he'd clearly anticipated the question.

"I may have suggested that the Lord Commander commanded our highborn guest should have someone attend to any needs she might have. To make up for her less than desirable accommodation." The whole thing was said in a deeply sardonic tone and Abby almost smiled. "Though I expect Ser Marcus will grace us with his presence any moment now. They're taking their time."

_Marcus_. Marcus had a plan and he was coming. He hadn't abandoned her. The thought warmed her inside.

Wait. " _They?_ "

"Someone willing to help him. Help you." The boy smiled, genuinely this time, "There is still hope, Lady Griffin."

Abby was grateful and intrigued; the boy was obviously clever enough to understand the danger they were all in, yet he had risked his life to deliver Clarke's message.

"How is it you know all of this? How is it you knew about my husband?"

The boy shrugged self-deprecatingly, "I'm an apprentice who is unwanted in King's Landing. I'm nobody. I'm invisible."

"Not to me." Abby reached through the bars to touch the boy's arm, "You helped my daughter. And now you're helping me, even though you have no obligation to do so." He nodded, bowing his head, so modest and unsure in the face of such praise that Abby felt a pang of sadness for him. "Please, I'd like to know your name?" She asked, kindly.

"Murphy."

There was the echo of another pair of footsteps approaching then, torchlight dancing down the corridor, and before she became distracted by who she hoped would be her new saviours, Abby tightened her hold on the boy's arm.

"Thank you, Maester Murphy."

"I thought I told you to wait." Ser Marcus hissed to the boy, as he rounded the corner to stand in front of Abby's cell.

"And I told you I had to speak with the lady urgently." Murphy retorted, uncaring of the insolence he projected, "You and his Highness were taking too long with the guards."

Abby, who had been preoccupied with drinking in Marcus' features with a sense of relief and comfort, started at that, "His Highness?"

Marcus slipped a key into the lock of her cell door, and as it swung open, Abby felt the entirely inappropriate urge to walk into his arms. He wasn't wearing his armour, most likely to keep as quiet as possible whilst breaking her out of jail, just a white leather tunic, his sword still buckled about his waist. From the way he was looking at her, assessing her for injury or distress, Abby didn't doubt he would welcome such an embrace. He would be warm, she decided, and safe. She barely knew him, and yet already she would call him her protector, her confident. Her _friend_.

"Prince Wells is keeping watch at the entrance to the cells."

She almost stepped back into her cell, "The prince? But, surely he... His father..."

"Wells does not blindly follow his father's way of ruling. Especially now. I have much to tell you, but for now we must go. Wells knows somewhere safe."

Marcus took her arm to steer her from the black cells, but she protested, "Wait, no! I have to go after Clarke!"

Marcus frowned, "My Lady, we have no idea where Clarke is!"

Abby glanced at Murphy who was still and silent, watching their exchange. _Invisible_ , she thought.

"We do now. I have much to tell you too, Ser. And if you are breaking me out of this cell, I mean to leave King's Landing and find my daughter!" She tried to instil confidence she did not feel into her voice.

"Then where...?"

Abby looked to Murphy again in silent question. "She said she would take the Rose Road to Highgarden and start there."

Abby nodded decisively, "Alright then."

"Here," Murphy took off his maester's robe and held it out for Abby to take, "Keep the hood up and just maybe you can walk out of here unnoticed."

"Thank you." She slipped it on, the bulk of it hiding her figure and her skirts. "What about you?"

Murphy smirked, "There are passages beneath the Red Keep. Amazing what you learn when you're left alone to read and explore."

Marcus tugged her closer, the firelight danced across his handsome features and furrowed brow, flickers of gold in his warm, brown eyes. "My Lady, we must put our faith in Prince Wells. He is well loved and respected by the people and the court, he -"

"He has no rallying force behind him at this time, Ser. Who would dare defy the king?" Even as she said it, her stomach still fluttered at the fact that she was asking this of the man who has already done so. For _her_. "I am going after my daughter!" Abby was finding it hard not to yell. She watched Marcus' face twist with painful indecision, but her anger and defiance melted away at his next words.

"I will not let you go alone."

Even without his armour he was tall and imposing, but when he stood over her, but a hairs breath away, she felt only the conviction of his words. His stance was protective, drawing her further out into the light beyond the cells as if he could not bear to see her down in the darkness any longer.

"Marcus..." She murmured, without thinking. Not 'Ser', not 'Lord Commander', but simply Marcus. The man who had gone against his rank, his title, and his King, and who was willing to risk yet more for her, "I can't ask you to do -"

"You aren't asking, I'm telling you." He steered her towards the guards still posted at the cell's entranced, and she risked one last grateful glance at Murphy behind them, before the boy disappeared into the shadows.

"What took you so long?" Prince Wells also kept his voice low once they emerged, and Abby thought she would never be so glad to breathe in the humid, yet relatively fresh air of King's Landing. The guards on duty glanced at their Lord Commander and his mysterious hooded charge curiously, but both Marcus and Wells levelled them with a reprimanding glare.

"The prince and I are conducting business for the King," Marcus said, authoritatively, "As you were."

The guards straightened their stances and stared into the middle distance, letting Abby, Marcus and Wells pass without a word. As soon as they were alone and out of earshot, Abby and Wells spoke simultaneously:

"We have to find Clarke."

"I need to go after Clarke."

They shared a rueful look of shared grief for a moment.

"Murphy told me Clarke is out of the city already."

"Murphy?" Wells looked torn between relief and suspicion.

"That young maester who helped us." Marcus supplied. He looked at the younger man intently, "I know you want to find her, but your place is here. You're the only one who can reach your father."

Abby looked between them, knowing she was missing vital information, but willing to wait for Marcus to tell her, as he'd promised he would.

"I- I don't know how to lead, I'm not ready, I -"

"You're already leading." Marcus said gently, putting a hand on Wells' shoulder, "I think I've known it for a long time, you are a better king than he will ever be." Wells straightened at that, as if steeling himself for the heavy duty that was about to fall upon his shoulders, "But you are still his son, and you are the last link he has left to his past."

Wells nodded stoically, "I won't let him hurt anyone else. I will protect our people."

Marcus replied, equally solemn, "And I will protect Clarke."

The two men shook hands and Wells bowed to Abby. She could not let him go without saying something,

"Prince Wells... Thank you. Thank you, for everything."

Wells shrugged, "I love Clarke. I would do anything for her." And with that he departed, Abby's heart aching for him.

With the robe dwarfing her and the hood pulled down to conceal most of her face, they faced no questions nor obstructions from the few people who were still milling around the Red Keep, mainly drinking in the main hall. Marcus kept his firm, reassuring grip on her arm, leading her out past the courtyard, then into the stables.

Once there, Marcus headed straight over to a strong, beautiful grey dappled mare, who whinnied softly at the sight of him and nudged her nose into his hand when he reached out to stroke her.

"This is Eden." Marcus smiled back at Abby, and his expression was full of open affection. She wondered if he looked at Bellamy and Octavia that way. A tiny, fanciful voice in the back of her head whispered the hope that maybe he would look at her like that someday too, with undisguised affection and admiration. "And she'll never steer us wrong, I promise you."

"Hello." Abby stroked Eden between the ears whilst Marcus loaded some saddlebags he had apparently already packed. Then he turned and held out a dagger, hilt first, for Abby to take.

"No, I can't -"

"Please." He implored, those warm brown eyes full of concern, "Please, just take it. For my peace of mind if not your own. If something happens to me -"

"Don't say that."

"I won't leave you defenceless." He continued, determined. "Now come on."

Abby was no stranger to mounting or riding a horse, but Marcus' strong hands steadied her waist regardless as she settled herself on Eden's back. She found she didn't mind in the slightest. Especially when he then gracefully swung himself up in front of her to take the reigns, seating himself between her thighs. The feel of him between her legs made her flush, even as she mentally scolded herself. But more and more she found herself thinking that Ser Marcus Kane was a remarkable man. Her physical attraction to him notwithstanding, he held onto those values of honour, bravery, truth and protection that so few knights seemed to value anymore. He was observant, patient, and clearly had a mind of his own.

They trotted almost causally though the city streets, littered with drunks and whores, either vomiting or fucking in darkened corners, with street urchins taking advantage of the inebriated and picking pockets where they could. No one cared enough to squint though the darkness to recognise them, and if they did, Marcus still carried the recognition and authority of the Lord Commander even without his white cloak and armour, and people merely ducked their heads and went about their business.

Abby kept her hands clasped loosely in the material of Marcus' tunic at his sides for most of the ride, but as they approached the Lion's Gate she tightened her hold at the sight of the city watch guards, and her heart pounded wildly. She bowed her head to hide her face completely, her forehead brushing the centre of Marcus' back. As if sensing her anxiety, she felt him surreptitiously cover one of her hands with his own, squeezing reassuringly.

"Lord Commander," one of the men greeted, "What has you leaving the city so late?"

"Ah, you well know it matters not if it's night or day if the King commands it." Marcus answered, sounding for all the world as though he were sharing a friendly jest. "Our young maester needs an escort to the Blackwater so he can charter a ship back to Oldtown." He gestured with his head back towards Abby, "Apparently the King has decided his services are not required."

"What did he do?" asked the other guard.

"I do as the King commands." Marcus recited by rote, "To be honest I didn't ask."

"The River Gate would be better." said the first guard.

Marcus sighed, "Yes, thank you, I'm well aware," he snapped, "This gate was closer and he can get a boat along the Rush out to the bay. Like you said, it's late and I'm tired."

"Of course, Lord Commander."

They let them pass and once the gate was out of sight, Marcus spurred Eden into a gallop, and with that they were free. Exhilaration coursed through Abby's veins and she let herself wind her arms around Marcus' waist, hugging him tightly as much out of affection and appreciation as to keep herself on the horse. He was warm and solid in her arms; she hadn't been this close to a man in so long, and she not only relished the contact that she hadn't realised she'd missed so very much, but because it was _Marcus_. Marcus, with whom she now raced through the night, helping her, saving her, giving her the gift of the wind in her hair, and the twinkling stars against the velvet of the night sky, that she'd never thought she'd see or feel again once she'd been condemned to the black cells.

But now there was nothing but the two of them and Eden, running through the wild.

_I'm coming, Clarke._


	6. Marcus III

They rode hard through the night as Marcus vaguely followed the Blackwater Rush to keep his bearings. They needed to find the Mander, a smaller river that ran south west, and from there they would be in the Reach. It was not the most direct route to Highgarden, but Marcus would not risk the Rose Road. By now, he had no doubt, there would be enemies everywhere: the king's men, sellswords, bounty hunters... Trial by fire awaited them both should they be captured.

Eden galloped on, seemingly tirelessly, despite her heavy load, but Marcus could feel Abigail beginning to drain. He had no idea how long they had been travelling, time and distance having been swallowed up by the night, but by now her whole body was propped up, resting, against his back, warm and soft and trusting. And he, in turn, wanted so much to be worthy of that trust. He could perhaps pretend that he'd acted rashly, hadn't thought through the consequences properly, but Marcus Kane was nothing if not a man who thought deeply and weighed his options.

Thelonious had always made him his key strategist because of this contemplative nature. Well, he thought with a pang, the Thelonious of old.

Abigail stirred and her hold on him began to loosen as she slipped further into slumber. Marcus clutched both her hands in one of his, keeping a firm hold on the reigns with the other, to keep her from falling, and all thoughts of Thelonious Jaha left his head. He slowed Eden to a halt.

“My lady?” He murmured softly, but Abigail only made a soft noise in her throat and buried her nose in the hair at the nape of his neck. Marcus had to take a deep breath to steady himself.

The feelings that had been stirring within him ever since he had first laid eyes upon Abigail Griffin were almost foreign to him by now; wants and desires that he had not allowed himself. For years he had told himself that he was a man of the Kingsguard, and as such his loyalty was to the king and the realm only; his heart should be given fully to his duty and the oaths he had sworn. And since he had taken his place at Thelonious' side, there had been no woman. No one to even tempt him, if he was honest. Even back during his formative years with Pike, the few women (girls, really, for he'd been no more than a boy, himself) that had shared his bed had been out of some form of expectation, and he'd been far too young not to succumb to the pressure. Pike thought to make a man out of him, and in so many ways he had, but love, real love, not adolescent infatuation, was  
something that Marcus had no experience of.

He had not known that rush, that sensation of falling, that indescribable feeling that caused men's hearts to rule their heads and lose their wits; that made them sing songs and go to war. Except for this woman wrapped around him, falling asleep against his shoulder, whom he had already defied his king, broken the law, and risked his life and honour for.

She was strong, so strong, and so guarded with those she did not trust. She wore a mask made of granite that hid a soft heart that loved fiercely; determined to do what she believed was right and driven quickly to action to protect those she cared about. She was clever and passionate and devastatingly beautiful, and Marcus knew he was hovering on the precipice of something wondrous and dangerous, and altogether unfathomable.

“Lady Abigail?” He managed to wake her this time, feeling her awareness creeping in as she shifted against him. She squeezed his waist, her breath coming in an involuntary shocked gasp as she took in the darkened woods surrounding them; the wind whistling, rustling through the trees and the rush of the Mander (Marcus hoped) nearby. Otherwise the night was quiet, with no creatures scurrying underfoot, nor boars or wolves threatening to burst from the undergrowth.

“I was falling asleep?” She murmured, and Marcus was immediately besotted with that soft, sleepy tone in her voice. She continued to snuggle into him, and Marcus wondered if she was even aware that she was doing it. Or if she, half awake, thought he was someone else... However, those doubts were dashed away when she spoke again, “Marcus?” Again the lack of formality. He liked it, he liked it far too much. “Where are we?”

“Following the Mander, I hope.” He answered, “My lady, I would feel better about your safety if you switched places with me?” He made it into a question.

“Ride in front?” She asked, still sounding so utterly tired that he wished they could stop altogether, make camp with the rudimentary supplies he had packed, build a fire and wrap her up in warm furs so as to give her as much comfort as possible. Alas, Marcus feared they had not put enough distance between them and King's Landing.

“You should sleep, and I won't have you falling off.” He tried to turn his head back to look at her, and found her far too close, eyelashes fluttering as she struggled to alertness. “How long is it since you last slept?” He asked, and either the question was too much for Abigail's still waking mind, or she simply could not remember, but there was no answer forthcoming. “You were in that cell too long, my lady, and it's my fault. I am so sorry I couldn't get to you sooner.”

Marcus dismounted then, with ease, and Eden seemed to appreciate the lightened load, if only for a moment, shaking her mane and shifting where she stood. Marcus beckoned Abigail to slide forward in the saddle, before he swung himself up and took the reigns once more. Now Abigail was nestled safely in the protective frame of his arms and legs around her, and she gave a sigh of contentment that did nothing to stop his thoughts from cataloguing every place the warmth of her was pressed against him. She let her head fall back to rest in the crook of his neck, silky haircatching slightly in the rough of his beard, and Marcus was struck by how safe she must feel with him.

“You saved my life. We both know it. Do not apologise when you risked everything to get me out of there.” She said sleepily, her breath a warm whisper. Then she settled into him and appeared to fall asleep before he could think of anything in response. What she had said was true of course, but, in Marcus Kane fashion, he blamed himself for her having spent time in the cells at all, for her fear and the conditions she'd been subjected to. But maybe there was nothing to say when she so easily fell asleep in his arms. Marcus urged Eden onward, intent on never letting any harm come to the petite body he held ever again.

When the sun rose they made camp, finding a small rocky alcove at a point where the river meandered down into a stream, and where they could rest fairly hidden from passers by. Marcus unburdened Eden of her load, and Abby slipped down gracefully from her back. Eden wandered over to the stream to drink whilst Marcus and Abby did the same from the water skins Marcus had packed. They ate the fruit and bread that was in the bag whilst it was still fresh, before they had to resort to hard cheese and salted meat.

“You should rest.” Abigail said, and seemed to anticipate his “I'm fine” before it left his lips, “You watched over me all night, it was not only your safety you took responsibility for.” As if he wouldn't give his life to protect her at this point, came the sudden thought, pushed into his head. “Let me do the same for you,” she continued, “I will wake you at any sign of trouble, I swear.”

Marcus could not deny her the same trust she had showed in him, and so offered a small smile and an acquiescing nod.

“As my lady wishes.” He said, barely holding back a teasing grin, but delighting when she pursed her lips against a smile and rolled her eyes instead.

“You don't serve me, Ser.” She looked a little shy all of a sudden, “I'd much rather like to call you my friend.”

Marcus smiled, warmed by her words, yet trying to temper that flame that wanted to burn much more intensely for her; that part of him that already yearned for more.

“You have my friendship, Lady Abigail, and I am honoured to have yours. My _protection_ is yours, whether you want it or not.”

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head, “From what I know of you so far, Ser,” and here her eyes turned a little mischievous, “And I have observed a fair amount. I can't say I'm surprised in the least.”

“Well, _now_ I'm intrigued.”

Abigail laughed, and it instantly became his new favourite sound. “Go to sleep, Marcus.”

Smirking, he obeyed, and laid his bedroll not far from the mouth of the cave where Abigail took a seat. Marcus put his sword within easy reaching distance and laid down on his side, watching her as she surveyed their surroundings and kept an eye on Eden. The daylight streaming through into their alcove caught on the honey strands of her hair and made it gleam golden. Marcus fell asleep to that image of her, sober now that the lightness of their moment had passed, weighed down by sadness and worry, but silhouetted in sunlight.

When he woke again he estimated it to be late afternoon, and was grateful to find Abigail still within eyeshot, standing with Eden out on the grass, letting the horse nuzzle her curiously, occasionally stroking her mane and murmuring to her softly. It was a peaceful picture, and Marcus lingered for a moment, letting the last vestiges of sleep fall away.

He sat up then, and the movement caught Abigail's eye, for she started over towards him, gifting him with a smile.

"You snore." She informed him cheekily, eyes dancing.

The embarrassment was only fleeting; he liked that she was comfortable enough with him to tease him, "I meant to help you stay awake."

"Oh, well, in that case, it worked splendidly."

He snorted, "Sorry."

She shook her head, "I'm just glad you seemed to sleep well."

"I'm surprised I did." Marcus looked out at their small clearing, "My snoring didn't attract unwanted attention, then?"

It was her turn to breathe a laugh, "No, I've not heard anything but the snoring, the stream and the birds." She regarded him for a moment, looking indecisive about something. Marcus simply waited until she sighed, "To that end, I was hoping I might be able to wash in the stream. Once you were awake to stand guard?"

She phrased the last like a question, and for a moment Marcus could only swallow around the sudden dryness in this throat at the thought of her taking her clothes off anywhere in his vicinity.

"I'm not sure -" He began.

" _Please_ , Marcus." She was almost begging, "I feel disgusting. I have the feeling of those cells all over me, and I had spent the day travelling before that. If I could just get rid of this _bloody_ dress,"

He almost laughed at the distaste in her voice, the way her nose wrinkled. "I'm a northern girl, I have perfectly sensible leggings and boots on under here, if I could just borrow a tunic from you? I know you have one in the bag, I checked."

 _Seven help him,_ now she wanted to wear his clothes... Marcus had to force himself to be pragmatic. It was a perfectly reasonable request, and she would only have herself to blame if anyone happened upon them whilst she was only in her small clothes. The dress was no doubt heavy and cumbersome in their current situation.

Marcus sighed, giving in, "It'll be cold."

Her gratefulness was clear on her face, before she smirked, "Like I said, I'm a northern girl." And with that she darted over to the saddlebags, stealing the grey linen tunic from within, and started walking towards the stream, tossing a flippant "Come and defend my honour, Ser." behind her.

Marcus picked up his sword belt and followed behind her, feeling like the Gods were surely testing him. When Abigail reached the water's edge and set down the tunic on the grass, he turned his back to her, faced the trees that obscured them in the direction of the road, and told himself that after all the years and long hours he'd spent guarding the king, this was no different. He could _absolutely_ ignore the rustling of skirts behind him as Abigail undressed; the small contented sigh that escaped her at, perhaps, the feeling of the sun and the breeze on her skin. He would _not_ imagine how she might look in this moment...

A couple of small splashes told him she was venturing into the water, and if the hissed curses under her breath were anything to go by, she was not as immune to the cold as she would have him think. He couldn't help but chuckle.

"You'd better not be laughing at me."

"Swearing isn't very lady-like, Abigail." He countered, before realising he'd addressed her informally for the first time. Despite her having done the same, he wondered if he'd crossed a line, but she either didn't notice or didn't care.

"You sound like my mother." He snorted, and there was more splashing and less cursing.

"Besides, I'm about as far from court as I can get, right now." He hummed in agreement and she continued, "This does remind me of when I was a child."

"Your parents let you bathe in streams as a child?"

"Well, perhaps it's not quite the same," She sounded amused, still, "But I was allowed to explore the woods as long as someone from our household accompanied me. My mother wanted me to learn to identify medicinal plants and herbs, find out where they grew. She trained me to heal."

Just when he thought he could not admire her more. "You are practically a maester, then."

Her voice changed, hardened, "You can mock me all you want, you wouldn't be the first. Though I wouldn't have believed it of you until now." She sounded _hurt_ , then, and he hastened to correct her.

"I'm not mocking you, my lady, I _meant_ it. Genuinely."

"Oh." She seemed a little lost for words for a moment, and Marcus wished he could see her face. "I'm sorry, Marcus, I find I'm always defensive when I talk of my skills as a healer. Men are... They tend to be dismissive at best."

"I can imagine." He would not say he understood, because as a man he knew he could not. He could only liken it, perhaps, to the scorn and derision he used to be subjected to by highborn knights when Thelonious first rose him up amongst their ranks. He attempted to lighten the conversation once more, "I am glad to have you as a travelling companion. I could easily injure myself, you know, I'm quite clumsy."

It worked, and Marcus felt a bloom of warmth in his chest when he heard her laughter. "I'll keep that in mind."

The silence that followed was comfortable as Abigail finished washing, and Marcus clicked his tongue at Eden until she wandered over and affectionately bumped the side of his head with her muzzle.

"You have no idea how much better I feel." Abigail appeared at his side, smiling up at him, looking refreshed.  
Marcus couldn't deny the heated _tug_ in his belly at the sight of her wearing his tunic. It was far too large, but she had rolled up the sleeves and laced the front of it, a belt cinching it around her waist, where she had attached the knife he had given her in its sheath. Her hair was wet and braided to the side over one shoulder; she looked rather transformed.

"That suits you far better than me." It was only the truth.

She rolled her eyes, "Thank you."

Marcus nodded to their cave, "We'll rest a little while longer. Wait until we have the cover of darkness before continuing on. There are risks to travelling at night, of course, but we may be less likely to run into anyone else." _The king's men_ , he did not have to say.

Abigail accepted this, though he could tell she was itching to keep going after Clarke. But when they settled down she let herself doze quietly for a while, until dusk had fallen and Marcus risked making a small fire to keep them warm for a couple of hours and boil water for tea.

He handed a cup to Abigail as she tugged Murphy's cloak over her shoulders once more.

"Thank you." She murmured absently, seeming lost in thought. Marcus didn't push her, even though he grew concerned when the fire reflected unshed tears shining in her eyes. He wasn't left wondering for long.  
"Marcus?"

"Yes, my lady?"

She drew a deep breath, and exhaled shakily, "The day Jake... died... Were you there? Did you see him?”

Of course she was thinking about Jake, she had not long lost him. Guilt and an irrational sense of disappointment warred within Marcus for a moment. He had no right to feel disappointed when he hadn't even really entertained the idea of Abigail returning his affections, but here, with the reminder that she loved, and was mourning, another man, he felt foolish and heartsick nonetheless.

Then came the guilt again: Jake had been his friend, and here he was thinking about how much closer he yearned to be with his _wife_. Self-loathing rose like bile in his throat, but he forced himself to answer her.

“Yes, my Lady, I was with Jake for a time.” He could see his friend lying there clearly in his mind's eye, deathly pale, shivering and taking heaving breaths, gazing unseeingly at the ceiling above. He was either too lost in delirium or his own mind by then, and no matter how many times Marcus called his name, or spoke meaningless words of comfort, Jake did not seem to know he was there. “I was not there when he died.”

Abigail nodded, acknowledging his words, and when she closed her eyes the tears escaped, running salty tracks down her cheeks. Marcus desperately wished he could wipe them away if he could not make them stop entirely.

“I wish you had been.” She choked, and even though he could not stand to see her hurting, grieving, Marcus found her trust in him overwhelming; that she was letting her guard down all the way and letting him witness her pain. Abigail Griffin did not seem like the kind of person who would do so easily. “If neither I nor Clarke could be there, he should've had _someone_. He should have had a friend...”

Her face crumpled then, she covered her mouth, and all Marcus could do was look on helplessly until she reached out her free hand towards him. Stunned, he immediately shuffled closer within her reach, and took it in his own, willing to offer whatever comfort he could. Her hand was small and delicate wrapped in his own, paler next to his tanned skin, squeezing tightly like he was all she had to hold on to. He supposed in that moment, he was.

“He shouldn't be dead at all.” Marcus murmured, as she wiped the wetness from her cheeks. His mind wandered to the king once more, his crimes reflected in the flames dancing in front of them.

All the people that had died already, including Jake, for Thelonious' religious fervour, his delusions. The screams that Marcus had tried to ignore as those people burned, came back to him now, tearing through his mind and overpowering every other thought with a cacophony of agony.

Now it was he who clutched Abigail's hand to ground him, he was the one fighting off tears. He knew Abigail was looking at him curiously, and he knew he owed it to her to tell her everything. He would, _soon_ , but Abigail had already had to deal with her own emotional fallout tonight. He would not burden her further, not right now. Marcus could only stare into the fire and wonder, if Thelonious Jaha was the Red God, was he staring back at him through the flames?


	7. Raven

Raven would not lie, she was having the time of her life. Of course there was the small matter of having committed treason. Or at least being an accessory to the crime, perhaps. Well, whatever the technicalities, she was sure that her head would be on a spike right next to Clarke's, adorning the wall of Traitor's Walk, if they got caught. But the fact remained that she had never in her life been past the gates of King's Landing, just like Octavia, who, at a glance, looked about as delighted as Raven felt as they rode through the beauty of the Reach. To the north were the hills and the waters of the Riverlands, to the south lay Dorne, and the lands they covered in between were acres of vibrant green; fields of gold wheat, great trees, small saplings, and scatterings of wild flowers. At the height of midsummer, the sun shone brightly overheard, but they were riding quick enough that a sweet smelling breeze was catching in Raven's dark hair. For herself and Octavia, who were used to the close air, the dirt and sweat, of the capital; the daily heat of molten steel and iron fillings under their nails, this felt like paradise.

It was obviously less of a spectacle for Clarke and Bellamy, who were quiet and solemn for the most part, save for the multiple times Bellamy had worried aloud that they were far too exposed riding out in the open with no tree cover. Raven, who was sharing a horse with him, could feel the tension radiating through him. Octavia and Clarke, a couple of feet away, seemed to be deep in conversation, no doubt worshipping the ground Lexa Trigeda was hypothetically walking on.

She hooked her chin over Bellamy's shoulder, “You can relax, _Ser_ Bellamy.”

“Seven damn you, Raven, I'm not a knight, will you _please_ stop calling me that.”

“Only when it stops riling you.” Raven smirked. She had anecdotal evidence that Bellamy could be a good person to know, funny, genuine, usually after a few ales, but under the direction of the _Lord Commander_ (highborn lords and their titles, Raven thought derisively), he sometimes behaved as though he had a sword up his ass. Although he and Octavia looked upon Lord Commander Marcus Kane as something of a father, that gave the man some credit in Raven's eyes, if he hadn't betrayed them to the king, of course.

“We rode all through the night and we still haven't stopped all day, I think it would be fair to say we have a head start.”

“It would be unsafe to stop when -”

“When there's no defend-able ground, yes, I heard you the first time.”

Bellamy huffed, and from her limited view sitting behind him, Raven saw him clench his strong jaw. He had several days growth of stubble on his chin, and the wind had thrown his hair into disarray, out of it's respectable slicked back style and back into the unruly dark curls Raven liked far better, often liking to ruffle them. She'd be lying if she hadn't thought about taking him to bed once or twice, because sometimes he was so damn _fuckable_. But then he always ended up reminding her that he could turn into an absolute arsehole at any minute. Furthermore, Octavia was her best friend, and her business partner, and were Raven to start casually screwing Bellamy, that would bring about all kinds of awkwardness.

She decided to change tack, aware that his tension and shortness with her was not unfounded.

“So if those two are the Lexa fanatics over there, what in the hells are we doing here?” She tried to play the question off lightly.

She was successful and Bellamy snorted, "You know exactly why," Raven watched him as he looked over at the other two girls, "Neither of us could have let them go on their own."

Raven knew that was certainly true of Octavia, but she marvelled at how unquestioningly they all (Jasper and Monty too, to some extent) rallied around Clarke. Once upon a time, Raven might have scorned her for being highborn; for descending from her lofty heights and deigning to mingle with the commoners. That was before she knew her. Now, Clarke was simply one of their own.

"Clarke didn’t really have a choice..." She murmured, not expecting Bellamy to answer, but he did, echoing her thoughts,

"So neither did we."

She gave him a squeeze, "Clarke's family too now, huh?"

"Seems that way."

Raven felt bad for mentally calling him an asshole. "You spend so much time being uptight, sometimes I forget you're a good guy."

Bellamy actually chuckled, glancing at her over his shoulder, "Thanks, I think."

A comfortable silence fell between them for a while, and Raven looked back over at Clarke and Octavia, saw the telltale creases of worry around Clarke's eyes and the downward pull of her mouth whenever she stopped talking and had a moment to think.

"Do you think Jasper and Monty found that maester?" She asked Bellamy, "That they got a message to Clarke's mother?"

"We really have no way of knowing," She could hear the frown in Bellamy's voice, "We can only hope."

"I wonder if she has friends in King's Landing, people who can help her." _People she can trust_ hovered in the air, unspoken but implicit. If Lady Abigail had received the message, she would know to follow them to Highgarden, but how would she get there alone?

"She should not travel alone." Bellamy stated, unknowingly agreeing with her thoughts once again.

"What about your Ser Marcus?" Raven asked, feeling Bellamy stiffen imperceptibly, and frowning, "You have said that he is fond of Clarke? He would want to help her mother, surely? Help her find her daughter? He would want to find you. Octavia too."

Bellamy sighed, his shoulders slumping, "I don't know if we can rely on Ser Marcus anymore."

"Why? What _actually_ happened?"

Raven had never been sure if she trusted Ser Marcus herself, she tended not to trust those in power, especially those in the King's inner circle. But Ser Marcus was like a father to her closest friends; he had cared for them, raised them, and given them opportunities they would never have had otherwise when he had absolutely no obligation to do so. The fact that he was not highborn, that he came from the same place Raven was still trying to claw her way out of, well, it made him more relatable than the nobility he kept company with.

“I tried to tell him what Clarke told me –“

“You just went ahead and _told_ him?” Raven asked incredulously. It seemed so careless to her, so dangerous to trust the King’s right hand man without question.

“I didn’t know what to do!” Bellamy hissed, trying not to draw the others’ attention, “And when I don’t know what to do I’ve always gone to him. Confided in him.”

“That obviously worked out well this time.” Raven shot back, then immediately felt bad again as Bellamy flinched. He had gone to a man he trusted and respected for help and been turned away, he was not the one in the wrong.

“He told me that what I was saying was treason, and if I didn’t shut my mouth and leave it alone he wouldn’t be able to help me.”

“It sounds like he was protecting you the only way he could think to.”

“He said he wouldn’t be able to help _Octavia_ either.”

Raven felt a stab of anger at the man for using the threat to Octavia’s safety against Bellamy, but the logical side of her couldn’t help but think, for anyone who knew Bellamy, it was the most effective way to ensure his silence. She thought it was uncharacteristically charitable of her, but she found herself wondering if perhaps Ser Marcus’ pragmatism (that Bellamy often came into conflict with, if his complaining after a few drinks was anything to go by), made him seem callous when he was only trying to protect people. Protect his children.

Raven didn’t give voice to her thoughts; given where they were now, there didn’t seem to be any point.

“After that I didn’t want to take any more chances that he might go to the King.” Bellamy said, sounding resigned.

“I’m sorry.” Raven said, solemnly, and Bellamy nodded shortly, keeping his eyes fixed ahead of them.

They continued on in pairs like that for the rest of the day and the night, sleeping fitfully in the saddle, each taking shifts with guiding their horses' paths when the other person grew tired. By the time the sun was rising, and Bellamy deemed it finally safe to stop for a little while, as satisfied as he was going to get that they had out ridden anyone who might be following them, Raven was back to cursing his name.

If felt as the though the muscles along the back and inner of her thighs were on fire. She could tell Octavia was suffering similarly, attempting to stretch the pain away and hissing in discomfort. Much like being in the countryside, neither of them were used to riding on a horse either. Raven was only mildly placated when Clarke gave her a sympathetic look,

"If it helps, I'm used to it, and my backside hurts too, right now."

Raven smirked, "It helps a little."

Only Bellamy seemed immune, and if he was aching, he didn't show it. Raven extended her limbs, arching her back and feeling her bones click and grind, working out the kinks from being stationary for far too long. In the half-light she tried to take in her surroundings, finding nothing but fields, bushes and scattered trees; some woods lay to their right, but the road was nowhere in sight. Had they lost it in the darkness whilst she'd been sleeping?

"Where's the -" She began, and Bellamy answered as though anticipating the question.

"I thought it best to move away from the Rose Road the closer we got to Highgarden."

Raven frowned, "Have you ever _been_ to Highgarden? The road leads straight there, what if we get lost?"

"Apparently he and Clarke made the decision for us whilst we were asleep." Octavia said, sounding equally annoyed.

"I've been there," Clarke stated. Then, somewhat less confidently, "Admittedly only the once, butif we keep the Mander on our right -"

"I don't see or hear the river, Clarke." Octavia interjected.

"I kept track of it as we were riding, we're right in between it and the Red Fork, and if we keep heading south west, Highgarden is where the two rivers intersect."

"And if we hit the Red Mountains we'll know we've gone too far." Bellamy finished, in a way that sounded like he was repeating something that he and Clarke had already discussed.

Raven sighed heavily; she was sore, hungry and thirsty, and the combination of those three things  
wore her patience thin.

"Perhaps two of us ought to _find_ one of these rivers again if we want something to drink." Raven gestured to the saddlebags, "Fairly certain those water skins are empty. It would have been sensible to _stop_ and refill them whilst the river was still in sight, don't you think?"

Octavia, sensing where Raven was going with this suggestion, took up the mantle of speaking,

"Raven and I will go," She locked eyes with Raven in mutual agreement, "You two might have more planning to do, and you obviously don't need us." She started walking away towards the woods, and, after glancing at Clarke, who looked apologetic, and Bellamy, who looked harried, Raven shrugged and made to follow.

"Octavia!" She heard Bellamy call out to his sister, "Stay within shouting distance!"

Raven watched her friend roll her eyes, "I'm armed, Bellamy, we both are." And strode away.

Raven wasn’t sure her dagger counted much there, considering all she knew about wielding it was to keep the pointy end facing away, slash at her enemy and hope she hit something vital. Bellamy's fretful gaze landed on Raven, "You will call for us, won't you? If anything happens?"

Raven rarely understood Octavia's annoyance at Bellamy's protectiveness, simply because she had never had anyone care like that for her, but this time she felt the need to defend her partner.

"We're in the middle of nowhere," She pointed out, and began walking away once more, "But I'll make sure she doesn't do anything stupid."

When she saw how far Octavia had carried on without her, she felt another stab of annoyance (Seven help them, they were all driving each other crazy _already_ ) and had to jog a little to catch up to her friend. Further into the woods the trees were denser, the grass longer and the ground more uneven, and she stumbled a little. She was, after all, used to the paved streets of the capital.

“Hold up.” She said, and after a moment of concentrating on her footing, she looked up to see Octavia raising an eyebrow at her. It irked her, a little; like Octavia had any more experience than she out here in unknown territory. “Why are you mad at _me?"_

Octavia shrugged unconvincingly, “I’m not.”

"You’re acting like you have something to prove." Raven said, falling in beside Octavia as she began walking again, "It's not like Bellamy's concerns are unwarranted.” She felt like she had to concede that, at least, “We need to be careful."

"I haven't forgotten that." Octavia replied, and Raven's face must have shown scepticism, because she added, more emphatically, "I _haven't_. I do not think this to be some grand adventure, and I don't take the things Clarke told us lightly. I know it will be all our heads if they catch us."

Raven nodded, satisfied that she understood the seriousness of their situation, at least. "So what's the problem?"

"Bellamy treats me like a child. You cannot tell me you aren’t angry too at having things decided _for_ us." Raven couldn’t deny that, no. "You know I can take care of myself. We both can. Ser Marcus may have trained _him_ properly, but you of all people know that I practice _every_ day. Ser Marcus has taught me things, too."

"I know that." Raven glanced down at her sword, "I've seen you with that thing. Those straw dummies never stand a chance."

Octavia shoved her playfully, making a show of being offended before her scowl turned into a smirk, and Raven laughed.

"You know I wouldn't let anyone else get away with that." Octavia's tone was exasperated but affectionate, but then her amusement left her face, replaced by a look of sadness and anger, "Bellamy thinks Ser Marcus remains loyal to the King. That we can't rely on him anymore."

Raven could tell she was angry at her brother for doubting the knight, not at Ser Marcus. This was the vulnerable side of Octavia that she rarely ever showed to anyone other than Raven or Bellamy. In this moment, she was looking at the young girl who hero worshipped the man that had saved her and her brother. Sympathy came easily; she had never had a father, and neither had Octavia until Ser Marcus. Raven reached out to squeeze her arm,

"I don't know him like you do, O. He's close to the King, and after what he said to Bellamy..."

She could see Octavia was getting more upset at her words and hastened to add, "But he loves you. He wouldn't just abandon you."

"Maybe he's finally decided we're too much trouble." Octavia murmured, sadly.

Raven's heart ached for her. For a long time now she had considered Octavia to be like a sister, not simply a business partner. Before she could struggle to summon up some reassurance though, she saw Octavia's eyes widen at something over Raven's shoulder. She whirled round to see a man standing only feet away. _How had they not heard him?_

Octavia drew her sword and held it like an extension of herself, in a way that Raven had always envied somewhat, even if she preferred to make weapons rather than wield them. Rather than doing the same (his own sword hung at his hip) the man held his hands out, palms forward, in a placating gesture.

He was tall and broad, muscular and obviously fighting fit. With a stab of panic, Raven realised that he could probably overpower even Bellamy; she and Octavia stood no chance. The man had dark skin and a shaved head; he wore no armour, no clothes of a Westerosi fashion, simply light linens and a red leather tunic, and Raven could see the edges of a tattoo on his upper chest where his shirt was loose. But it was his eyes that were the most striking: the skin around them was blackened with paint or charcoal, running down a little over his cheek bones. It was perhaps meant to be frightening, intimidating, but past all that his eyes themselves seemed thoughtful, almost kind.

That impression only grew when he spoke in a calming, gentle voice, "I won't hurt you."

Octavia snorted, "You'll have to do better than that." She did a fine job of sounding unaffected, sure of herself, but Raven could feel her fear, her uncertainty, coming from her in waves. Octavia stepped in front of her slightly, her protective stance clear, "I assure you I'm very capable of using this blade."

Raven cringed internally. A trained and confident swordsman would not feel the need to say such a thing. But the man did not laugh, he did not show the smallest hint of amusement or dominance.

"I'm sure you can." No doubt any other man would have sounded condescending, but to Raven he sounded deeply serious. All her instincts were telling her that this man was not from Westeros, and she was too curious to stay quiet any longer,

"Who are you?"

The man took his eyes off Octavia, turned his attention on Raven, and stepped a little closer. Octavia, perhaps in a show of bravado, refused to back away.

"If I told you my name it is very possible you might kill me."

Raven raised her eyebrows, "Well that doesn't sound like a person who's particularly safe to be around."

The man's lips twitched in a barely there smile; it softened his face, "No, I suppose it doesn't." Another step, and Raven heard a small intake of breath from Octavia, shifting her feet a little. "I hope you'll forgive me, but I saw your group travelling on the road."

"You've been following us?" Octavia demanded, "Is it just you? Or are there more?"

She would not take her eyes off the man, so Raven looked for her, eyes darting around but seeing only impenetrable shades of green. If this man had other people nearby, they must all be as stealthy as he was, which made Raven wonder why, if his aim was to simply kill them, did he reveal himself? Why approach them at all?

"I am alone, but my people are not far."

"How are we supposed to trust -" Octavia started, but Raven interrupted,

"Why are you alone?"

He seemed to take a moment to contemplate them, perhaps choosing his words carefully or deciding what to reveal to them.

"My queen sent me to scout ahead. I decided to follow you to ascertain whether you might be friend or foe. Especially this far south."

_His queen...?_ Surely it could not be that easy, Raven thought in disbelief. In their shock, she and Octavia turned to one another, and the man took his chance at Octavia’s distraction. Swift, graceful and deadly, he seemed to cross the space between them in the blink of an eye, grabbed the hilt of Octavia's sword and twisted it easily out of her hand.

Raven heard the panicked cry that tore it's way out of her echoed by Octavia, and she scrabbled for the dagger at her belt, hands shaking, heart pounding in fear. When she held the small blade up, it trembled in the air.

The man held Octavia close, a mockery of an embrace, her back to his chest, an arm pinning her across her shoulders; her own blade was pressed close to her throat. The man, however, seemed completely calm as he looked at Raven. He was not breathing heavily like the two of them; he looked as though the manoeuvre had involved no exertion at all. Octavia pulled futilely at the hand holding her sword aloft, struggling a little but he was far too strong. She looked more furious than afraid. Raven could pretend no such thing, terror was coursing through her. All it would take was a flick of his wrist, any moment now, and Octavia would be bleeding out.

"Let her go!" Raven shouted, her voice sounding pathetically hysterical to her own ears.

"Hear me for a moment," The man said, sounding so controlled and steady by contrast. "My name is Lincoln Trigeda." He said, and both girl's eyes widened in recognition. "Lexa Trigeda is my cousin and my Queen. I would think that you’d know that name, even if you are too young to truly remember the dynasty of kings it belonged to. My family are only here to take back the home we were cast out of, and to take vengeance on the man who usurped my uncle. We do not want unnecessary bloodshed." He inclined his head a little down to Octavia, who had stopped moving as she processed his words. He spoke his next to her, but still loud enough for Raven to hear him, "I want you to understand that I could have killed you easily. Both of you. But I don't want to do that. I'm not going to. I trust you will grant me the same courtesy when I let you go."

And then he did just that. He released his hold on Octavia, who whipped around to face him, remaining close. Raven could not see her face, couldn't read Lincoln’s, and wondered what was passing silently between them. If Octavia had still felt threatened at least, she would have sprung away from him. Lincoln’s lips twitched again, looking down at her, and he offered her the hilt of her sword. Octavia took it back, and, to Raven’s astonishment, she did not raise it again.

"Your stance is good.” Lincoln commented, “You are clearly comfortable holding a sword. We shall work on the rest. Don't worry, we'll make a warrior out of you yet.”

“Will _we?”_ Octavia said, and Raven knew that tone: a challenge, almost a flirtation. What in the hells had just happened between them that Raven had failed to pick up on? She herself still felt wary, nervous, but found herself following Octavia’s example. They had found who they were looking for, after all. Or at least someone who could take them to her.

“We came looking for Lexa.” Octavia said; laying all their cards on the table then, Raven thought, somewhat derisively.

Lincoln raised an eyebrow, “Is that so? Why would you do that? I imagine such an act would be seen as treason.”

“It would be better if our friend explained to you.” Raven said, and the two of them looked startled for a moment when they looked over to her, as if they’d forgotten she was there. "It's best that you hear it from her. This is all her idea."

"You follow her?"

He made it sound as though Clarke was their _leader_ , which Raven automatically railed against, but she supposed they would not be here if not for her. They were _technically_ following her lead.

"I suppose." Octavia sounded grudging, and Raven fought the urge to smirk. "Come with us, talk to Clarke, and then you can take us to Lexa." Lincoln's eyes flicked between the two of them, perhaps looking for any hint of deception, and Octavia noticed his hesitancy too. She sighed, "You've been watching ever since the road, right? There are four of us. Just four. You know that. After what I just saw, I have a feeling you'd still have the advantage." She smirked, "Maybe you could knock my brother off his high horse."

The real smile on Lincoln's face finally broke his stoic demeanour, and Raven felt herself relax just a little.

"I will trust you, then." He said, and gestured in a manner that clearly said _lead the way_. “What might I call you?"  
Raven let them pass her and trailed behind them, unwilling to turn her back to him.

"I'm Octavia, and this is Raven."

It took them all of five minutes to get back to Clarke and Bellamy, and when they did, Bellamy's reaction upon seeing Lincoln was fairly predictable.

His eyes widened and his sword was drawn in an instant, and Raven could already see the difference in skill between the Blake siblings in that action alone.

"Octavia, get away from him!" He yelled, advancing on them whilst Clarke watched worriedly in the background. "Who are you?"

"Bell..." Octavia stepped in front of Lincoln, which only seemed to panic Bellamy more. He was close enough now that Raven could see how terrified he was for his sister, his jaw clenched with barely constrained anger; everything in his bearing screamed hostility. Octavia held one hand out towards him, the other to Lincoln, silently imploring him not to move. "It's ok, Bell."

Bellamy's conflict was clear, holding his sword in a white knuckled grip, eyes flitting in confusion between Octavia and the strange man whom she was protecting. He glanced at Raven and she found herself giving a nod of confirmation: _he's not a threat._

"This is Lincoln," Octavia was saying, "And he can take us to Lexa."

"What?" Clarke was flying forward suddenly, and Bellamy threw an arm out to stop her, "You - You're with Lexa Trigeda?" A renewed sense of purpose seemed to have come over her, she was like a girl grasping at her salvation, her eyes bright with excitement, "She's really here?"

Lincoln nodded, "She is here in Westeros, and she intends to take back what is hers. Octavia said you have been seeking her out, does that mean you are an ally to our cause?"

"Yes." Clarke replied without hesitation, though Bellamy, Raven noticed, still looked conflicted. He had not lowered his sword.

"You would defy your King and swear loyalty to Queen Lexa?"

"He is not my King." Clarke said, vehemently. "I'll swear fealty right now if that's what it takes."

"Clarke," Bellamy muttered, "We shouldn't be so quick to -"

"I am Clarke Griffin, of Griffin's Point," She declared to Lincoln, "Thelonious Jaha murdered my father. I owe him nothing but the same slow death."

Raven felt a shiver run through her; all of a sudden Clarke was full of fire and vengeance, and Raven did not know her. Lincoln, however, stared at her with something like surprised recognition.

"Griffin?" He repeated.

"Y-Yes?" Clarke was taken aback, an uncertain young girl once more.

"Come with me. The Queen will want to see you.


	8. Abby III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, there is ATTEMPTED rape in this chapter. It is a fairly short passage, and isn't particularly descriptive, but it was unpleasant to write and therefore will no doubt be unpleasant to read/possibly triggering.

They kept moving. When night fell this time, Abby found herself wide awake. Free from the weight of exhaustion and wearing clothes that leant themselves to comfort far more than those she had been wearing the night before, her heart was racing with the thrill of riding through the dark; her senses felt keener, her thoughts whirling.

Clarke was always at the forefront of her mind, of course, but it had been so long since she had ridden quite like this, without having to hold onto a sense of ladylike decorum; just galloping through the wild, the wind whipping through her hair, messing up her loose braid. Abby couldn't care less. And though it was not quite the same as being at the reigns herself, riding alone and free, there was a feeling of comfort in holding on tight to Marcus that tempered the exhilaration coursing through her; the knowledge that, in his care, even travelling at this speed, she was safe.

Where the wind was cold, biting at her exposed skin, Marcus was warm and solid where they were pressed together, her arms wrapped around his waist, her thighs gripping his hips. She was not immune to the sensation of his body between her legs, even felt a heat stirring in her belly at the fleeting, unbidden thought of perhaps feeling him there in different circumstances. She would not deny to herself her attraction to him, would not give credence to the guilt that inevitably attempted to rear its head; it was true that Jake was not long dead, but Abby had lived without a husband for far longer than that. She had done her duty, remained the faithful wife, and she loved him still, but the fact remained: she had been lonely.

It was not simply that Marcus was a handsome man, Abby's head was not so easily turned, but that he was a good man. She trusted him, he had saved her life, and defied his king to do so. He had shown great care and concern, not only for her but for Clarke too. There was a protectiveness in his bearing towards her that did not, however, feel condescending. Abby did not feel as though he was dismissing her own strengths, more that he seemed to respect them, in fact. Men of his position were so often arrogant and self-important, but Marcus had remained humble.

It was well known that the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had been raised up by the King from lowly beginnings, and Abby had no doubt that Marcus must have faced prejudice and disdain from those who presided at court; lords and ladies who thought themselves above and separate from the common folk, and looked down on the poor as something less than human. Abby had no time for such people. Her own household servants had been more family to her than Jacob these past two years, and she had hoped to raise Clarke to never take her privilege for granted, nor to look down upon others judging purely by the circumstances of their birth. She supposed, if Clarke's closest confidants were Bellamy Blake and his sister, then she had succeeded in that regard.

Abby wished to remain close to Ser Marcus Kane, not just because he was all she had in this moment, but because she wanted to hold on to this intense connection that had grown between them in so short a time. She wanted to find out where it might lead, and she most certainly did not care that he was not of noble birth. But, she thought, she was in a position to not care; Marcus might feel differently. He did not seem a proud man, but Abby considered the possibility that he might feel embarrassed about their difference in status, depending on how their association might develop. She hoped she could reassure him that it was of little importance to her. She wondered if she was being naive.

These were worries for a future that might not even come. For now, Marcus was her rock in the storm they had found themselves lost in together. Overcome with gratitude and affection, Abby gave him a little squeeze, clearly hugging him for a moment, rather than just holding on. In response, Marcus slowed down Eden's gallop and placed a hand over hers,

"Are you alright?" He raised his voice a little to be heard over the rushing of the wind and Eden's hoof beats.

Abby paused; there were so many things that weren't alright, so many dangers following behind them and no doubt lying ahead, but in this moment she felt more alive than she had in years, and she felt herself dare to hope. Her heart told her that they were following Clarke's path, that she would see her daughter again soon.  
So she leaned in closer to speak into Marcus' ear, breathing in the earthy, masculine scent of him,

"I have hope."

* * *

  
When they finally stopped to make camp and rest, the sun was once more peaking over the horizon, casting the world in a soft, golden glow. Even as Abby felt the ache in her legs and behind, brought on by a hard nights riding, and the fatigue now setting in, she could not help but gaze at her surroundings in wonder. Nature did not bloom like this in the north, where snows still fell even in a years long summer such as this one. There was so much vibrant green; lush grass that was soft to sit upon and had tickled her toes when she had stripped down to wash in the stream the day before. She could smell the wild flowers blossoming in the trees, titled her head  
back to study the pink and orange streaks in the slowly lightening sky, the wind gently stirring her hair. Against all odds, she felt peaceful.

"My lady," Marcus was crouched in their small clearing, surrounded by hedges and a tiny pond that was barely more than a puddle, but was an adequate source of drinking water. He had started a fire, "You should sleep, I will take first watch."

Of course, she thought, he would probably let her sleep the day away before he allowed himself any rest.

"You might call me Abby, you know," She said, settling down on the ground next to him, and shooting him a coy smile, " _Marcus_." She added, pointedly, "I feel as though we have been through too much together already to keep falling back on formalities." She did not add that it had been a long time since anyone other than her brother had called her that, since she had close friends who were comfortable enough to breach etiquette with her.

He smiled, though it was fleeting, and nodded a little. He stared into the fire for a moment and it seemed to Abby that something was weighing him down. She watched the play of light and shadow flickering over his face in the dim light of the dawn, saw the furrow of his brow and the firm line of his lips.

"What is it?" She decided to speak up, and he started a little, but recovered quickly, "You seem troubled."

He shook his head, but his reassuring smile did not reach his eyes, "It's nothing that cannot wait until you have rested, my lady."

Abby tried not to be disappointed that he still did not call her by her given name. There clearly was something he wanted to say, but though she was intensely curious as to what he was deliberating so seriously, she decided she would not push him to talk before he was ready. He was obviously set on keeping those boundaries between them. _For now_ , she decided.

So she wrapped herself in her cloak and laid down, the heat of the fire easing the discomfort of the cold earth beneath her. Sleep, when it came, however, was broken and uneasy. The small amount of safety and hope she had felt in her waking hours with Marcus was chased away when she found herself back in the black cells beneath the Red Keep, the rank, putrid air closing in on her once more. Somewhere in the darkness, Clarke called out for her, afraid, but Abby could not move, no matter how hard she strained her muscles. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw flashes of red robes, a cold, pale face, soulless eyes watching her.

When Abby jerked awake, the sun was shining down on her and the birds were singing, but she felt cold. She assumed it had been the dream that woke her, until she felt the light pressure of Marcus' hand on her shoulder, and saw how closely he was sitting, looking down at her with soft concern.

"I thought I was back in that cell," She confessed, before she could stop herself, "That this was the dream, and I had never really left."

His thumb rubbed back and forth soothingly where he was still touching her, "You escaped. That was real. I promise."

"Because you came for me," She whispered, breathless with a nameless, powerful feeling growing in her chest that went deeper than simply affection and gratitude, and seemed to overflow the longer their gazes remained locked, his brown eyes warm and tender...

"Abby," He murmured, and she felt a tiny thrill sweep through her at the sound of her name falling from his lips, as if he had become so lost in her for a moment that his insistence at maintaining propriety was forgotten. But then she saw clearly a dark thought pass through his mind, and his expression grew anguished, pained, as he continued to look at her. He cleared his throat, retreating from whatever had just passed between them, "My lady, I..." The turn in his demeanour filled her with inexplicable dread, "There are things I must tell you. Things you must know."

She was suddenly sure she would not like whatever he had to say.

She sat up properly, her cloak falling away and pooling in her lap, and she plucked at it with nervous fingers. Marcus was no longer meeting her eye, and instead his gaze flitted over her attire, the tunic of his that she still wore. She had not missed his initial reaction to her wearing his clothes the previous day, the slight hitch in his breathing and the darkening of his eyes. But now his gaze was simply distracted as he seemed to wage an internal war with himself as to how he should proceed. The longer he delayed speaking, the tenser she became,

"For Gods sake, Marcus, just tell me!" She snapped, abruptly, manners be damned.

Marcus sighed in resignation, "I'm not sure how to..." He looked at her face and her lack of patience must have shown, "The Red Woman..." He began, "The King is... I have no other way to describe it, he is under her thrall."

Abby would have laughed were it not for the gravely serious way he said it, the way she herself had experienced a sense of unease and fear simply by being in the woman's presence. She had witnessed how Lady Alie had the King's ear. And then there was the way she had hovered in the periphery of Abby's nightmare.

"Alright..." She said, slowly, questioningly.

"How much do you know of the servants of R'hllor? The Red God?"

"I know it is an eastern religion. They call him the Lord of Light."

Marcus nodded, "And do you know anything of its history?"

"I'm afraid I don't."

"I would rather that you never have to know." His words were chilling, "The man who mentored me told me once. He told me a story that long ago, worshippers of the Red God would offer up sacrifices to him. That they would burn non-believers alive and see visions of the future in the flames."

_Oh, Gods.._. She did not want to ask, she did not want to know where he was going with this, but her mind had already drawn its own conclusions.

"Are you telling me this because the Red Woman is whispering such horrific notions in the King's ear? Or because..." Her heart was thumping in terror and she could not go on. Marcus finished the thought for her,

"Because it is already happening."

For a moment it seemed like neither of them dared to breath, like the world went silent and still, whilst Abby's mind reeled and she tried to make sense of something she found impossible to even contemplate. Thelonious Jaha had become a cold, imperious ruler, and was no longer the advocator of justice that she once knew him to be, but Abby could not believe he was capable of the atrocities Marcus was speaking of.

He leaned forward, silently beseeching her to look at him, and she saw the tumult of outrage, pain and grief behind his eyes.

"I know you don't want to believe it, because I didn't either. I _couldn't_. Even though..." He swallowed, and there was so much regret on his face, then, "Even though it was Jacob who first told me."

"Jake..." She whispered, feeling nauseous as her frenzied mind worked to connect the dots, "Jake was the Master of Laws. He knew... He found out what they were doing, and they - they killed him for it." Betrayal flooded through her and she glared at Marcus, “You didn’t believe him!”

He looked wretched, and perhaps in any other moment Abby would have seen the extent of his self-loathing, the guilt that was consuming him, but all she could think about was how mere minutes ago she was so sure of the goodness of his heart, that she could rely on him and trust him.

"He was your friend! How could you turn him away?” And she knew that was exactly what had happened when he didn’t try to deny it, “How could you not _know_ what was happening right in front of you?”

“My lady, please –“

“They _killed_ him! He went to you for help, for support, and you abandoned him.” She could not stop the accusations flying from her mouth, could only feel satisfaction as he winced when each one hit their target. Empathy and reason had fled and she felt so foolish for having thought she knew him.

“I didn’t know. You must believe me, I didn’t know that they would do that to Jake! I didn’t know how far she had twisted and warped the King’s mind!”

"You must have known that something was wrong!" She cried, "I do not believe that you are so incompetent at your job, _Ser_ ,” He flinched, “that you failed to notice people being _burned alive_ by the man you claim to serve so faithfully!"

"It is because I served him these past years that I could not believe it of him!" Marcus shot back, finally rising to his own defence, his voice louder than she'd ever heard it, "I was nothing before Thelonious! I had aspirations of knighthood, of serving a great lord, that I _knew_ could never happen. Because all I had was my name, my sword and the clothes on my back! And when I met Thelonious and he called for war, I saw a man who was willing to risk everything to save our country from a tyrant's rule!" The fight left him as suddenly as it had appeared, and he seemed to sag in misery. Abby didn't want to feel the twinges of understanding coming from her treacherous heart; she did not want to see his tired eyes, his deep sadness. "I believed in him, Abigail." He  
said, softly, "All I ever wanted was to serve a good man who I believed in. I thought I had found that in my friend, and I was blinded by loyalty."

It was nothing but the truth, she could see that plainly. Marcus Kane was an honest man, she had not misjudged that, and she realised that he had needed to unburden himself, to expose the whole, ugly truth, before continuing on with her a moment longer. Even if he was risking her blame, her hatred, even her disgust, he could not in good conscience let their friendship keep growing with so many secrets lying between them. He had wanted her to see him clearly, whatever the cost.

Abby was not a knight, but she was fiercely loyal to those she loved; she thought of the significance of the marriage vows she'd sworn to Jake, and, though they were different, thought perhaps she could understand the power that oaths of loyalty and servitude would hold over a man like Marcus Kane. Honour and values of knighthood still meant something to him, where the same could no longer be said for so many others.

She found she no longer knew what to say, torn between wanting to grant him absolution and still holding him accountable for Jake’s death. Maybe it was wrong, but deep in her heart she found herself still wanting to know him, to keep him, not despite his flaws but _because_ of them. He was not perfect, he was human.

She realised they had been silent for quite some time when Marcus drew a breath to speak, “I know I am not worthy of your forgiveness, or your trust. But _please_ ,” Their eyes met once more, “Please let me do for you and Clarke what I failed to do for Jake. Let me help you. “

He was suddenly interrupted by a startled neighing from Eden, breaking through the stillness of their clearing. She danced a little, spooked, and Marcus shot to his feet, drawing his sword and facing the woods before Abby could even process that he'd moved. They were not alone.

"Don't move, oath breaker!" The threat came from a low, disdainful voice, before Abby saw the man it belonged to emerge from the trees, flanked by armoured men bearing the Wallace house sigil. There were perhaps ten of them approaching. The man's lips spread in a cruel smirk and his eyes were cold as he regarded them, calculating, the same eyes as his father. “You know, if you wanted to avoid being discovered, you really shouldn’t shout like that.”

"Cage." Marcus addressed him, confirming Abby's suspicions.

" _My Lord_ , Kane, if you please. Know your place." Whether he was there on the King's orders or not, Abby immediately loathed the man. He sauntered closer, the men at his sides keeping their swords trained on Abby and Marcus, though Cage Wallace made no move to draw his own, "Lower your sword," He said to Marcus, as though scolding a foolish child. "My archers will put an arrow in you both if you do not."

Upon his words, two men with drawn bows emerged from further behind him, at the tree line. Two more of the men that had followed their Lord into the clearing took a hold of Eden's reigns, stopping her from rearing back. Sighing in frustration, his entire body coiled with tension, Marcus slowly sheathed his sword, never taking his eyes off Wallace, who ignored him in favour of looking Abby up and down with a raised eyebrow.

"Lady Griffin," His gaze, his interest, made Abby's skin crawl, "No longer dressing the part of a noblewoman, I see. What does that make you now, I wonder?" He grinned down at where Abby's hand, which had automatically gone to her belt at their appearance, gripped the knife Marcus had given her, "Wanted criminal?" His eyes travelled to Marcus once more, and that grin turned into vicious glee. "Kane's whore?"

There was a scuffling noise and Abby turned to see two Wallace men restraining Marcus, as he fought towards Cage, looking angrier than she'd ever seen him,

"Watch your tongue!" Marcus growled.

Cage looked unconcerned, "Perhaps you should watch yours," He took a couple of casual steps closer to Marcus, hands behind his back, "Before I cut it out."

If Abby had not instinctively known what kind of sadistic, dangerous man they were dealing with (Cage Wallace had a distasteful reputation), fear flooded her at his words.

"Marcus..." She murmured quietly, and saw the fear mirrored in his eyes when he turned to her. She shook her head minutely, silently imploring him not to provoke them.

"I'd listen to your lady, Kane." Cage said, wandering back to Abby and stepping right into her personal space. He was not a large man, but there was a quiet, deadly menace that radiated from him. A spike of adrenaline shot through her, her heart beating faster: _fight or flight._

"Why are you here?" Abby managed to keep her voice defiant and steady, raising her chin to stare him down, even as she fought down a shudder looking into eyes.

He smiled, but it was cruel, "You already know the answer to that, my lady."

"The King - "

"Yes, the King. He wants you back, quite badly, you know." He glanced at Marcus, "Your glorified hedge knight, not so much. You are the traitor of influence and value, after all."

"The King doesn't want to punish me for what I did?" Marcus interjected, and Abby knew he was trying to bring Cage's attention back to himself and away from her.

You don't matter, Kane." Cage spat, dismissively, keeping his eyes fixed on Abby, "Your beautiful lady friend is who he wants. Can't say I blame him." He reached up and trailed a finger over Abby's cheek, and she flinched away in disgust.

Marcus struggled against his captors, his fury and panic clear in equal measure, "Don't touch her!"

"Oh, well, see now that you've told me not to..." In one movement he closed any remaining space between them, chest pressed against hers, and grabbed her wrist in a bruising grip to both prevent her from escaping and stop her from drawing her weapon. He tutted at her, "I don't think you know how to use that, my lady."

Abby twisted in his grip and looked at him with loathing, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he frightened her.

"You know nothing about me."

"Let her go or I swear I will kill you." This time, Marcus sounded controlled, deadly, though in her periphery Abby could see he was still fighting to get to her.

Cage huffed a small laugh, a puff of air, hot and foul against her face, as though Marcus was merely a mildly inconvenient amusement, then, before she knew what was happening, he turned her and pushed her away. She staggered, and several pairs of hands grabbed at her, breaking her fall but keeping her trapped. She turned back just in time to see Cage cross swiftly over to Marcus, and her dagger, that she now realised with horror he had taken from her belt, glinted in the sun before he plunged it into Marcus' stomach.

A scream tore from her throat, raw and primal, full of rage and grief and _love_. She knew it must be love or it would not hurt this much to watch Marcus' face contort in pain, fighting to stay standing, a dark, crimson stain growing on the front of his shirt. Abby was fighting wildly against the hands that gripped her, her heart pounding in her ears, threatening to break out of her chest. She was calling Marcus' name, cursing Cage, begging him...

"Please! Please, don't! Marcus! Oh, Gods..."

Marcus looked away from Cage to her, and his face transformed, worry shining from his eyes, an intense look of yearning to go to her, to reassure, to comfort. She thought she saw the word "don't" fall from his lips, as he shook his head at her. They had supplies in their saddlebag, she remembered. She _had_ to save him, stop the bleeding, she could not lose him.

"Please, let me help him..."

Cage spoke over her loudly, addressing them all,

"The King commanded that Lady Griffin be brought back to King's Landing _alive_ ," Having gotten their attention, everyone stopped, waiting. Abby only had eyes for Marcus, and he for her. All she could hear was his laboured breathing; all she could see was his pale face, the sweat on his brow, the shudders of pain that wracked his body, the blood on his clothing. "He said nothing about her remaining untouched."

" _No!"_ Marcus started thrashing with a renewed desperation.

Abby felt that same coldness that she first had awoken with (what felt like years ago) settle deep in her bones, turning her veins to ice, but somehow felt a calmness rush over her at the same time, with one clarifying thought: she would turn herself to stone and accept her fate, if they allowed her to first save Marcus Kane.

Everything felt distant, Cage's voice, "Have some fun, boys!" The shouts and jeers of the men faded in and out, she did not feel the hands pawing at her body, even her own voice sounded far away when she struggled to make herself heard.

"Let me help him, let me treat his wound, and you can do whatever you want to me." Her body betrayed her; her words came out trembling.

There was a beat, a pause in which everything was suspended in time. Cage looked at her with his eyebrows raised, appraisingly, as though seeing her for the first time, and a look of pure agony crossed Marcus' face.  
Then everything exploded in sound and chaos.

"Abby, don't you _dare!_ ” Marcus, furious and despairing, found some impossible reserve of inner strength, and broke free enough to grab the blade of one of the men's swords and yank it from their grip. All in one moment, he spun, using the men's brief stunned shock to his advantage, and threw his elbow back into another's face. Then, with his palm slick with blood, he thrust the sword forward into the first body he found.

The man dropped to the ground, but then more were joining the fray, and Marcus only got a few more swings in before he was down on the ground, fists and feet flying at him that Abby _felt_ as each one landed. And then she was screaming,

"Stop! Have me! Take me! You're killing him! Please, don't!"

She could not fight them all off, every one of them was larger and stronger than her, but her very blood was screaming to get to Marcus. Tears streamed down her cheeks, blinding her, and her voice was hoarse from shouting; she kicked and punched and scratched at the men pulling her away, pulling her down.

What happened next she would only remember later in flashes of sound and vision. She caught a final glimpse of Marcus' face, beaten and bloody, but still looking for her, still trying to reach her.

He was shouting her name, brokenly, "Abby! Abby!" Not _my lady_ , not _Abigail_ , but _Abby_.

Then she lost sight of him as she fell to the ground, landing on her back and struggling to breathe. There was a man above her, crushing her, holding her down, laughing. A sob escaped her; there was no way out. They would kill Marcus, they would violate her and use her, and then they would drag her back to King's Landing to burn.

One moment she was looking up into the man's face - bloated, splotchy, repulsive - then an axe split his head open, and Abby was choking in hot, coppery blood.


	9. Clarke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time to meet Lexa Trigeda, rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Octavia was smiling brightly at the newcomer again, who seemed just as intently focused on her as they conversed, and Clarke could swear she saw Bellamy's eye begin to twitch. Certainly his jaw was clenched, his entire body tensed, and he walked beside her whilst never taking his eyes off his younger sister and the Essosi man up ahead. Clarke also noticed him gripping his sword hilt, ready to draw within a split second.

However, to Clarke, the newcomer ( _Lincoln_ , she reminded herself) seemed to be in earnest, and did not pose a threat. Perhaps it was naive of her to think so, and Bellamy or Raven might tell her that she did not know the ways of the world, having been born into privilege, living the life of a _princess_ these last couple of years at Wells' side, but Clarke liked to think she was a good judge of character. When she had still lived up in Griffin's Point, and her family had still been together, her mother had allowed her to accompany her on trips into the villages nearby, and learn the same healing skills Lady Abigail had inherited from her childhood maester. For as long as Clarke could remember, they had never had a maester at Griffin's Point, and Lady Abigail was revered by the common folk living under their protection for offering her help and care to everyone, no matter what their station, as much as she was disparaged by other noble houses.

Her mother did not care, and Clarke took a fierce pride in being like her and doing the same. Treating the sick and the injured sometimes exposed Clarke to the extremes of human nature, for when one is vulnerable, she learned, that is when one is desperate enough to cry or beg or lash out like a wounded animal. And in those moments, though they of course took a household guard to accompany them on these visits, her mother did not show a hint of fear; she often showed a strength that belied her small frame, for she understood that such actions came from a place of pain or wariness, rather than the intent to do her harm.

So Clarke was learned in the subtleties of body language, and she was inclined to believe that Lincoln was being truthful, and that meant he was taking them directly to Lexa Trigeda in the flesh. The thought made her stomach flip in trepidation; she burned with curiosity at the way Lincoln had reacted to her name as though it had great importance. _What could that possibly mean?_

It would not do to worry, she told herself, until she had solid reason. Lincoln was taking them to the person she had been seeking, she would start with that when faced with Lexa herself. Instead she turned to Bellamy to, in part, distract herself,

"Do try to look like you want to kill him less." She murmured, quietly, and watched his shoulders slump minutely. He bit his lip, worry clear in his eyes.

"I don't understand it," He confessed, meeting Clarke's eyes, "Octavia is not one to trust easily. Neither of us are; it comes from growing up in places like Flea Bottom."

Clarke nodded; she herself had had to earn the Blake's trust and friendship, especially Octavia's. There was a fierce need to prove herself in the other girl that surpassed anything Clarke could understand. She knew, once again, it came from the difference in their circumstances, what they were born into. Growing up, when Clarke spoke, people had always listened.

"Perhaps we should trust in Octavia's instincts then?" She suggested, glancing toward the front of their party again and watching the two in question continue to talk intently, "I know exactly how hard it is to win her over. Something clearly happened in the woods. Lincoln proved himself."

"I just wish I knew what," Bellamy sighed in frustration, "I wish I had been there."

"Had you been there, it might not have ended as well," Clarke raised her eyebrows and gave a pointed glance at where his hand still rested on his sword hilt, "You might have tried to cut him down on sight."

" _Tried?_ "

Clarke snorted; there was much to be said for Bellamy's strength of character, but he was still guilty of possessing a typical male ego at times.

"Lincoln seems capable." Was all she said, and received only a huff in response.

They walked on in silence for a little while, keeping pace beside each other in mutual unspoken agreement, and Clarke found she was incredibly glad to have him there to draw on his strength and support. She might have told Bellamy to relax, but when the open fields of the Reach turned into woodland again, Clarke could feel every muscle in her body tensing just as surely as Bellamy radiated anxiety next to her. She felt far more exposed; the trees would provide cover should they be attacked, but Lincoln had already proved that his people knew how to use the woods to their advantage far better than them. They would not see it coming.

Lincoln suddenly stopped walking, bringing them all to a halt, and Clarke's stomach clenched. He glanced to his side at Octavia, gave her the slightest nod that Clarke hoped was meant to reassure, then looked back at Clarke herself.

"Our camp is close; if you listen you can hear the river," He said, and in the silence, Clarke could indeed hear the tell tale rushing of water.

"We aren't going to Highgarden?" She asked, frowning a little.

Lincoln shook his head, "We sailed a boat up the river, the rest of our fleet waits hidden near the Shield Islands. The queen wished to explore further inland, past her family seat."

"A fleet?" Raven interjected, sounding nervous, "You have a whole fleet?"

Clarke could swear Lincoln's mouth quirked in a small smile, "Such as it is." _Whatever that might mean,_ she thought. "It would be best if I approach first," He continued, "Talk to my people rather than bringing you straight in. Many of my people are not as open to negotiating with Westerners as I am."

_That_ was not remotely reassuring. He began to walk away, but Clarke called out to him,

"And Lexa?"

Lincoln regarded her, and Clarke wondered if she should get in the habit of thinking of Lexa as 'the Queen' to avoid any disrespect.

"My Queen is diplomatic, and wise beyond her years. She will want to hear what you have to say, Clarke Griffin." Then he turned and strode away.

The remaining four looked at each other. Clarke read nothing but confidence on Octavia's face, and found herself wondering the same thing as Bellamy: exactly _what_ had happened between her and Lincoln? She had a mind to ask Raven, but she too was staring at Octavia as though she did not recognise her.

"What happens if this goes south, Princess?" Bellamy asked Clarke, but before she could respond, Octavia spoke up,

"It won't. Lincoln won't let it."

Bellamy turned to his sister, "And how is it that you're best friends with our _negotiator_ all of a sudden?"

Octavia narrowed her eyes, tilting her chin up defiantly, "He could have killed me. Raven too. He didn't. And he didn't mock me for trying to fight." Her words were clipped, brief, but Clarke felt understanding slowly creeping up on her; growing up poor, working as a smith and learning to use a blade, Octavia always had to fight to be taken seriously. The girl continued, "It would have been easier for him to just kill us; he's gaining nothing by helping us."

"O's right," Raven said, "Besides, he clearly thinks the queen will want to meet _you_ , Clarke. Maybe you have something she'll want."

Clarke still found Lincoln's recognition of her name somewhat unnerving, "Even if that were true," She said, "I have no idea what that could be."

"Octavia..." They all startled at Lincoln's voice, turning to see him looking at them expectantly. Octavia crossed to his side whilst Clarke was simultaneously even more nervous and impressed at the silent way he moved in the woods. "Follow me," He told them all, and lead them back in the direction he'd come.

Clarke took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was not the naive princess so many believed her to be. She had lived in King's Landing for some time, and she knew how the game of thrones was played. She knew how people looked at her, judged her as young, pretty, blonde and _Northern_ , and thought her clueless to the politics and subtle manipulations surrounding her. The South believed Northerners to be simple, old-fashioned and set in their ways, and to an extent they would be right, but that apparently extended to thinking they were smarter in general. Clarke was raised to keep faith with the Old Gods, this was true, but she knew the North to be a place where history, loyalty and honour still meant something. _The North remembers,_ was a phrase her father had oft repeated to her; great houses remembered the service they did for one another, the  
ties that bound them. Northerners said what they meant, and meant what they said. In the South, Clarke had learned to keep her cards close to her chest, and if that meant letting people think she had no brain in her head, so be it. It meant people let their guard down around her more often, and that made it easier for Clarke to get a good idea of their character.

She was familiar with having to choose her words carefully, and there were very few people beyond the group she now travelled with that she let herself speak freely around... Her parents, Wells, Ser Marcus...

She was pulled from her thoughts when they entered a clearing and were confronted with about ten people holding blades of varying shapes and sizes. There were men and women, all dressed in leathers similar to Lincoln, with dark smudges of charcoal around their eyes like him too. Clarke's hand flew to Bellamy's arm the same moment he tried to draw his sword. She shook her head minutely, never taking her eyes off the strangers in front of them.

"My Queen," In the tense silence, Lincoln's voice seemed louder (and more unsure) than Clarke had heard it so far, and she noticed how he had shifted slightly to place his body between his people and Octavia. Clarke almost wanted to smile; whatever this strange attachment was that had quickly formed between them, it was clearly mutual.

There was movement from within the group before them,

"Lower your weapons," came the command; the voice was young and female, but infused with something hard and unyielding.

Blades were sheathed, their owners stepped aside with a bow of their heads, and Clarke laid eyes on Lexa Trigeda for the first time. Her first impression was how, even though she knew Lexa was not much older than herself, it was quite another thing to see a queen whom many would say was little more than a child herself. Clarke knew better, but it was still hard to reconcile. Lexa was slight, but carried herself in a manner that made her seem taller; she wore a dark red travelling cloak over her leathers and metal bodice; half her hair fell in brown waves over her shoulders, the rest was pulled away from her face into several intricate braids. It accentuated the black streaks surrounding piercing green eyes that made Clarke feel suddenly exposed. With an unexpected pang, she realised that Lexa was stunningly beautiful, though her face was stern and unreadable.

Those eyes swept over their group for a moment, before settling on her.

"You are Clarke Griffin." Lexa stated, and Clarke frowned despite herself.

"I am," Her voice pitched higher, making it sound like a question, "your Grace." She added.

Lexa nodded, and Clarke wondered if she imagined a slight tilting of her lips that might have been the ghost of a smile, "You are as your father described you."

Her thoughts slammed to an abrupt halt, before they started whirling again in complete confusion, her pulse quickening. The mask of calmness she had intended to present was lost as she stared wide-eyed at the queen.

"My- my father? How? I don't -"

 For a wild, irrational moment, Clarke imagined that Jacob Griffin was somehow _here_ , amongst Lexa's people. That it had all been an impossible hoax, the body back in King's Landing was not truly him, and that it had all been part of a plan to escape the King and his Red Woman. But her childish hope fled in the face of the small frown that broke through Lexa's composure.

"Your father did not send you here?"

"What?" Confusion made Clarke abandon all decorum, "No! My father is dead!"

Lexa seemed visibly shocked at that; certainly her eyes widened then narrowed in anger, her gaze intense as she stepped closer to Clarke. Around them, everyone tensed.

"Jacob is dead? _How?_ "

"Tell me how you know him." Clarke countered, holding her ground, raising her chin defiantly.

"He contacted me," Lexa said, and she was no longer as cool and detached as she'd been a moment ago. "The rumours of my return to Westeros have travelled amongst the small folk, and Jacob heard them. So he went to the only relative I have who was neither exiled nor executed: my cousin Luna, who married into house Floudon of Dorne."

Clarke had said it herself, back at _The Moon and Shine_ : Dorne's loyalties did not lie with the King, and Lexa would need somewhere safe to make harbour. She had figured it all out just like her father before her.

"My father came to you in Dorne."

"Yes," Lexa said, "After he renounced his loyalty to Jaha, Luna was convinced of his sincerity. He was essentially already conspiring to commit treason." There was a pause in which Clarke thought of the great risk her father had taken, and how, despite House Floudon turning out to be friend not foe, his actions had caught up with him anyway. How she wished he could have _told_ her what he was struggling with. But of course, she thought, heart aching, he would have only wanted to protect her.

"How did he die?" Lexa asked, almost softly, and Clarke felt that red hot anger sweep through her again.

She clenched her jaw, her voice came out as hard and assertive as Lexa's had, "The King murdered him."

She swore that same anger flashed through Lexa's eyes then as she looked at Clarke appraisingly, as though, Clarke hoped, she were facing an equal.

"He murdered mine, too," Lexa said, low and deadly, "Do you want vengeance, Clarke Griffin?"

Clarke paused, feeling as though this were a test; though whether it was Lexa's test or if she was testing herself, she was not sure. But she felt as though the direction and outlook her life would take in the future hinged upon her answer. She thought of her father, about what he would say or do; how he was so dedicated to the job the King chose him for that he _could not_ turn a blind eye to the atrocities around him, even if it meant losing his own life. And then she knew.

"I want _justice_." She said. Lexa's face was once more unreadable.

An older woman with dark skin, short hair, and suspicious eyes stepped closer to Lexa.

"My Queen, if they fled the capital following her father's death, Jaha might have sent men after them. They could have lead the enemy straight to you." She turned on Lincoln, accusing, "Could you have been followed?"

"I saw no one else, Indra." He said, ever calm.

"Still, we should retreat back to the fleet, my Queen," Indra said, "We need to maintain the element of surprise, and if they discover us... "

"You're right," Lexa agreed with a sharp nod, "Lead us," She gestured to Indra, then turned back to Clarke, "We will talk more about your father and Jaha once we are safely down river. Come."

It was Octavia who moved first, side by side with Lincoln, and Clarke and the others could do nothing but follow. Bellamy and Raven, she noticed, still looked uneasy. Despite their group now being of a significant number, Lexa's people moved almost soundlessly. Clarke was used to the sound of clattering armour and heavy footfalls when she'd chanced to see knights and squires training in the Red Keep, or when she and Wells had been escorted by the Kingsguard. Like Lincoln though, the rest of Lexa's people wore layers of leathers and furs, with sparse chains or metal plating.

Then, as her thoughts naturally turned from there to Ser Marcus, their quiet procession froze it's tracks as a scream pierced the air, followed by an anguished voice that Clarke knew better than anyone else's in the world:

"Please! Please, don't! Marcus! Oh, Gods..."

Clarke could not breathe, it was as if all the air had suddenly disappeared, and her heart hammered against her chest as she spun on the spot, her head whipping from side to side trying in vain to pinpoint the origin of her mother's voice. Dimly she was aware of Lexa and her people staring at her in confusion or suspicion, some already stood tensed with their blades drawn.

Without realising, Clarke had grabbed Bellamy's arm, and he and Octavia were looking at her with equally wild eyes.

"My mother," Clarke gasped, "That was my mother!"

"Did she say "Marcus?"" Octavia demanded, "Did you hear -?"

Another voice interrupted, loudly as though addressing the area at large. Clarke did not recognise it.

"The King commanded that Lady Griffin be brought back to King's Landing _alive_. He said nothing about her remaining untouched."

Clarke felt sick; pure panic made her break past the protective circle Lexa's guards had formed around their queen, and she lurched forward, desperate for a direction to run toward. Then a third voice tore through her, echoing the overwhelming denial in her heart.

" _No!_ "

She had never heard Ser Marcus' voice like that. He sounded more like a wounded animal than human. Her fear for her mother increased tenfold, and by now Octavia and Bellamy were flanking her on both sides.

"That was Ser Marcus!" Octavia's voice cracked with emotion, and Clarke knew that she too had never heard her knight sound like that. "Where are they?"

"Octavia!" Lincoln darted towards them and kept moving with a jerk of his head for them to follow. Of course, Clarke thought, Lincoln had tracked them well enough before, he could surely follow all the noise easily. A hand touched her shoulder, and Clarke turned to find Lexa at her side, the rest of her people trailing uncertainly behind her. She regarded Clarke intently, and a little of that impenetrable stoicism fell away; there was a hint of sympathy in her dark eyes.

"Your mother?"

Bellamy, Octavia and Lincoln were moving and Clarke hastened to follow, surprised when Lexa did the same.

"Yes," Clarke said breathlessly, "I don't know what's happening, but you heard the same thing as me! She is in danger, we have to find her!"

"My Queen!" Indra again, "We have no idea of their numbers! We just agreed we need to avoid detection -"

"Lexa, please! I need your help!" Clarke would not stop; she did not care that she had failed to use proper titles or accredit Lexa as she was due, and it seemed neither did Lexa, as she continued leading her people onwards and ignored Indra's council.

There were other indistinct things being shouted as they ran through the woods; Clarke swore she could hear men jeering, a horse neighing. She knew they were close when Lincoln stopped in his tracks and drew his blade. Octavia and Bellamy followed suit as Ser Marcus' voice roared out,

"Abby, don't you _dare!_ "

_Abby_ , Clarke thought. He called her Abby. Octavia jerked as if to leap forward, but Lincoln held her back, slowly creeping ahead instead, until they reached the tree line and the scene revealed itself.

"Stop! Have me! Take me! You're killing him! Please, don't!"

There was her mother, tearful, anguished, screaming and fighting against the men that held her away from a larger group that were mercilessly beating someone lying on the ground.

_Oh Gods_... Clarke wanted to cry, but at the same time her blood was boiling with rage. She wanted to kill these men who were hurting her mother, and, as much as she cared for Ser Marcus, she wanted to scream at her mother for offering up herself for a man she barely knew. Of course, Abigail Griffin cared deeply and easily for people, and she could not have watched a man beaten to death before her eyes without trying to stop it. But the desperation in her voice, her violent struggles, the way she'd called him _Marcus_... Clarke didn't understand. But she had no time to dwell on it.

"That's Ser Marcus on the ground," Octavia mumbled, her voice trembling.

"Please..." Clarke begged, looking first at Bellamy, then Lexa, who nodded stonily.

Clarke and Raven automatically fell behind as those able to fight started quietly advancing.

"Stay back," Bellamy commanded Octavia, and Clarke winced, knowing how well _that_ would be received.

"Like hells I will," Octavia growled, and with that she fell in with Lincoln and his people, ignoring Bellamy rushing to catch up and hissing her name worriedly. Clarke and Raven followed at a safe distance; though Clarke wanted to rush to her mother, she feared she would get in the way.

In the end, stealth was barely needed. The soldiers were far too engrossed in their fun to notice just over a dozen people slip into their midst, and by the time they did, it was too late. Clarke saw her mother get pulled down, but her cry of horror was lost amongst the sudden shouts of men dying all around her as Lexa's people descended. She saw one warrior cut down the man on top of her mother and forced her legs to move, propelling herself over and crashing down to her knees at her mother's side.

There was blood all over her, but her eyes were wide with fright as she looked up at Clarke, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath,

" _Clarke?"_

"Mother!"

She sat up immediately and pulled Clarke into a crushing embrace.

"How?" Her hands flitted over Clarke's face, her hair, reassuring herself that her daughter was well, and Clarke did the same. Her mother was a mess, dirt and blood on her skin and hair, soaking through the over large linen tunic she wore that looked as though it belonged to a man...

Her eyes were red rimmed and wild, tear tracks staining her cheeks. Clarke did not answer her question, just shook her head and started pulling her to her feet.

"We can tell each other everything once we are safe -"

" _Marcus!_ " Her mother suddenly gasped, frantic, her hands tightening where she was gripping Clarke, "Is he-? Oh Gods, is he alive?"

"I- I don't -" Her stomach lurched and Clarke turned around to survey the chaos their ambush had left behind.

Bodies littered the ground, staining the grass dark red in the fading light. Clarke forced herself to look, telling herself she should get used to violence and injury beyond the minor ailments she was used to treating at her mother's side. She saw Lexa's warriors cleaning their weapons; none of them seemed to have been harmed. Lexa herself was standing before a distressed grey horse, attempting to calm and soothe it. As if sensing Clarke's gaze, she turned to look at her and gave her a solemn nod.

" _No_..." Her mother jostled her as she ran from her side, towards where Clarke now saw Bellamy and Octavia knelt beside a body on the ground. Her own blood ran cold, and she hastened to join them.

If it weren't for the awful, irregular panted breaths, Clarke would have thought Ser Marcus to be dead. There was so much blood; too much, it seemed, dirt and bruising and red abrasions marring every inch of visible skin.

"I didn't -" Octavia choked out. She was crying; Clarke had never seen her cry. Both Blakes were pale and shaking. "I didn't know if I should touch him."

Her mother was fumbling with Ser Marcus' tunic front, peeling it away from where the blood was making it stick to his skin to reveal a stab wound in his abdomen, bleeding profusely. Her hands, that Clarke had never known to be anything but steady, were trembling.

"I need my bag," Her mother mumbled, "Eden..." She glanced back towards the horse that Lexa had been looking after, "Medicine, bandages... I- I have things in my bag." Raven, who had been awkwardly standing, looking lost, jumped at the chance to be useful and went over to the horse called Eden. Clarke watched her mother turn back to Ser Marcus and reach out to tenderly touch his face. Her own face crumpled as fresh tears welled up, "Marcus... Marcus, can you hear me?"

Ser Marcus made a noise in his throat and tried to open his eyes, turning his head into Abigail's hand, and it seemed as though her mother could not stop a sob from escaping as she stroked his hair, matted with blood, from his forehead. Clarke was struck by the intimacy of it, by the urge to look away, as though she were intruding upon something private. She didn't know how to feel about it.

Ser Marcus coughed, and Clarke saw flecks of blood leave his lips; this time it was Octavia who sobbed, leaning forward to take his hand whilst her brother put his arm around her.

"Can you save him?" Bellamy asked in a strained voice, as Raven set her mother's bag down in front of her.

There was no answer, but suddenly Lincoln was there, crouching down next to them,

"I am a healer. Please, let me help?"

Abigail looked up at him with such gratitude, pausing in her rummaging through her bag, "Yes. _Please_."

Clarke pushed to her feet, stepping back to give them space to work, but hovering close should her mother need her help. Night was falling, there was a cold bite in the air, and she closed her eyes for a moment, forcing herself to breathe and trying to calm her racing heart and mind. She could not rest for long, though, it would all become too much. She could feel the sheer magnitude of all her thoughts and emotions already on the verge of overwhelming her. She pushed it down, away, and opened her eyes to find Lexa next to her, looking down at the group on the ground.

"He is your friend." She said, more a statement than a question.

"Yes." Clarke replied. He _was_ , she realised. Ser Marcus had been one of the few people she'd trusted in King's Landing.

"Lincoln is a skilled healer, he will do everything he can." Clarke nodded in acknowledgement; her mother, too, knew what she was doing. Though whether she could remain objective enough to work was apparently another matter. "Once he is able to be moved, we need to go. We'll put him on the horse." Lexa scanned the surrounding woods, "My people tell me one escaped. They lost him in the trees and did not want to stray too far from my side. They do not know these lands."

Lexa fixed her with that same piercing stare that had arrested her when they first met, "He will return to his King and tell him what happened here. War is coming, Clarke."


	10. Marcus IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus wakes.

Marcus was drifting. It seemed as though he was hovering endlessly on the brink of consciousness, never quite awake nor asleep. Somewhere in the fog of his memory, he remembered thinking that he was dying. He remembered sharp, searing pain setting his stomach on fire, the blade piercing his skin, rending flesh. Then how his whole body was battered and bleeding, and there wasn't an inch of him that wasn't throbbing, screaming. The pain was like a huge wave, engulfing him and pulling him under into the abyss. He would have surrendered but for the one last overwhelming thought resonating through him: _save Abby_.

But he could not fight, and the world around him became a rush of men's fists, kicking boots, and roaring noise: screaming, shouting, clanging of steel. He heard more than one horse's frightened neighing and wondered if Eden was alive.

Then it faded, or Marcus did, but he remembered Octavia suddenly appearing above him, crying, reaching for him but being afraid to touch, and he couldn't reconcile her presence in that place. She was supposed to be safe in King's Landing. But there was Bellamy too, both of his children pleading with him to hold on, shouting for help, and he understood. If her brother was in trouble, Octavia would do everything in her power to help. If Bellamy was going to commit treason, Octavia would take the fall with him. She was fierce and loyal, Marcus' little wildfire.

He thought he heard Lady Clarke, calling for her mother, and for a moment it had been good to hear her voice too, then his heart seized in his chest again at the thought of Abby. _Abby_...

He'd tried to rise and pain wracked his body so violently that a sob tore free from his throat, but he ignored Bellamy and Octavia's cries for him to be still. He had to _know_ what had become of Abby. His vision had clouded in a red haze, faces swimming in and out of sight, but suddenly she'd been _there_ , face streaked with blood and tears, contorted in horror and grief, her hair wild. Her clothes - his tunic - were muddy but did not look as though they'd been torn from her. She choked his name, stroked his face, and he remembered how her fingers trembled. How that one point of contact seemed to drown out the pain for a moment. People were talking around them; someone set Abby's medical bag down by her and she started frantically looking through it.

There was a man with dark skin crouched next to her whom Marcus had never seen before, but Abby did not seem alarmed by him.

"Are-" It was hard to speak, hard to breathe, but he had to know, continuing even as Abby shushed him, "Are you alright?"

Fresh tears fell down her cheeks, "Oh, Marcus..."

_No, please, no... Don't say they hurt her_... Panic and blood loss had him shaking, "Abby, what did they-"

"They didn't do anything," She shook her head, "They didn't get the chance."

Marcus forced himself to focus on her face, scanning it for any trace of a lie, that she might simply be trying to comfort him by concealing the truth, but she was earnest, pained only by his injuries rather than any of her own. It was like this was the thing his body had been waiting to hear before it stopped clinging to consciousness. In knowing Abby was safe and unharmed, Marcus felt relief wash through him and surrendered to the darkness that was tugging him down, even as he heard Abby, Octavia and Bellamy begging him to stay.

After that it was a feverish haze of pain; the jostling of his body, passing snippets of conversation that his mind was unable to grasp, hands, both trying to soothe and tend his wounds, which just made them hurt all the more, until he tasted a thick bitterness in his mouth as someone fed him milk of the poppy. He had never liked the way the opiate made him feel sick and dizzy, but this time he welcomed the relief it brought as it warmed his veins and made him feel as though his body were a separate, distant thing. He was even grateful for how it slowed his thoughts, made them hard to grasp and hold on to; he did not want to dwell on all that had happened within the last few days. Weeks even.

He did not want to think of Jacob, nor the guilt he would forever feel at having put his faith in the wrong friend. He did not want to think of the dark and twisted shade of Thelonious that now sat upon the iron throne. He longed for Abigail, thought he saw her face nearby frequently, her eyes shining with something unidentifiable, a look that had never been directed at Marcus in all his life.

It was beautiful and terrifying, and full of so much emotion that Marcus could only think it must be a dream. The drug made him unsure of reality, and Abby could not possibly be looking at him like that. But he let himself take comfort in the soft cadence of her voice, whispering comfort and apologies when she treated his wounds, rather than remember the way she sounded screaming and crying his name.

He thought he might have spoken to her, unintelligible mumblings about how he was sorry, that she was wonderful and beautiful and he did not deserve her kindness, but he was fairly sure that he was talking to dream Abby, because she got that look on her face again.

Wherever he was, there was very little light, only that of a couple of candles flickering in the corner of his eye. The ceiling was wooden, low, he could hear people walking overhead, and sometimes the whole room seemed to creak and sway. Milk of the poppy made the world shift and swim around him like he was at sea, but he thought perhaps he might really be on a ship. Though how he and the others came to be there was a mystery.

The first time he truly awoke from the in-between place of pain and dreams he'd been existing in, feeling more grounded in his own mind and body than he had since he'd succumbed to his wounds, Octavia was there next to his bed. Marcus had no way of telling how long he had been lying there, nor if it was night or day, but, even though his injuries still throbbed and flared up when he tried flexing his stiff muscles, he hoped that he'd passed through the worst of it.

A grunt of discomfort scraped out of his raw, parched throat, and he blinked to clear his vision as Octavia startled,

"Ser?"

Marcus tried to smile but imagined it came across as more of a wince, "Octavia," A smile lit up her face as he spoke her name, "Water?"

"Oh!" She turned to the table where a flagon sat next to the lamp, and poured into a small, wooden cup. Then, leaning over him, she helped him drink with a supportive hand behind his neck. Cool, relief slid down his throat even as a couple of droplets missed his mouth and trickled into his beard. The water woke him up further, bringing clarity with it, but his thirst was not quenched, and he made a noise of frustration when Octavia drew the cup away again.

"Not so fast," She scolded, in the same patient tone of voice he had used on her since she was a slip of a girl. Had he really been so condescending? "Lady Griffin said you would be sick drinking too much at once."

He was instantly alert, "Abby? Is she alright? Where is she? Where are _we?_ "

Octavia did not appear fazed by the sudden torrent of questions, merely smirked a little with a quirk of an eyebrow, " _Abby_ , is it?"

Refusing to follow this line of enquiry, Marcus growled warningly, "Octavia..."

She sighed, rolling her eyes, "The Lady is fine. We all are, in case you were worried," She added, pointedly, and he felt a little guilty.

"Of course I was worried. I _am_ worried," He said, "You and your brother have turned yourselves into fugitives, wanted by the crown."

"You have no right to tell either of us off for helping our friend when you have put yourself in the same position for Lady Abigial." Octavia stated, bluntly, and Marcus could not argue with that. He took in the fierce righteousness in her eyes and felt a contradictory blaze of affection and pride belay his words. Marcus reached out an aching arm to tuck her long, dark hair behind her ear,

"Not just for Abigial," He murmured, "I should not have turned Bellamy away when he came to me in confidence." She softened then, and Marcus knew she had not lost faith in him as he had feared. "I want you to know that I regretted that," He continued, "I should not have said what I did, but I was afraid for you both."

Octavia nodded and clasped his hand, "You may not be blood, but you _are_ my father." She said, "I knew you wouldn't purposely bring any harm to us."

Marcus could only nod back, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat and blinking back the prickling behind his eyes. The two of them were startled from their emotional moment when the door to the tiny room opened suddenly to reveal Lady Abigail, and Marcus felt his stomach lurch in nervousness and his heartbeat quicken at the sight of her. For all that they had just been through, and everything he thought he'd seen in the desperate way she'd pleaded for his life and looked at him with anguish, their last conversation had been full of hurt and betrayal.

Still, upon seeing him awake, she gasped, "Marcus!" and rushed over to stand close at his bedside when Octavia stepped away to let her take her place. Marcus tore his eyes away from the vision before him to lock eyes with the girl once more, and Octavia offered him a knowing quirk of the lips before she quietly slipped from the room, closing the door behind her.

Abigail leaned over him, ostensibly checking his bandages, and Marcus took the opportunity to study her in her closeness. She looked tired; dark bruises stood out beneath red rimmed eyes, and worry lines tugged at the corner of her mouth and between her eyebrows. Of course, her beauty still took his breath away: her deeply expressive brown eyes, her high cheekbones, her delicate features, and the tumbling waves of honey brown hair that framed her face. She was wearing fresh clean clothes: a fitted, tan leather vest over a faded white linen shirt, and full, dark brown woollen skirts, and Marcus remembered in a vivid flash how his shirt that she'd been wearing had been covered in blood when she'd appeared at his side on the ground.

"Are you alright?" He asked urgently, and she stilled, looked down at him, stricken.

"Am _I_ alright?" She repeated, her voice strained, "Marcus, you almost died."

"And _you_ almost -" He stopped, shaken by a terrible thought, trying in vain to sift through the memories that were hazy with distress and pain and blood loss, "It _was_ "almost", wasn't it? Please tell me they didn't -"

"They didn't," Abigail hastened to assure him, looking down at him with wide eyes, like she still couldn't believe he cared more about her than what had happened to him. After _everything_ , how could she not know? "Marcus..."

"My lady," He said, at the same time, and they both stopped. She frowned, looking aggrieved.

"So we're back to titles again, are we?"

Marcus swallowed, searching her face, "The last time we spoke -"

"That was before," She interrupted, "Before you risked your life to protect me. Before I realised..." She trailed off, looking away for a moment, and did not continue.

Marcus' mind was racing despite the lingering haze of milk of the poppy, wondering exactly what she had started to say, but he did not press her, he did not feel he had the right.

"I did your family a great wrong," He murmured, guilt and self-loathing rising once more like bile in his throat, "I should have died."

She looked suddenly furious, eyes blazing, "And how would you have atoned for your sins, then?" She snapped, anger and hurt evident in her tone, "How would that have helped me?"

He knew she was right, death would have been the coward's way out, leaving her to suffer alone. Still, he remembered her offering her body to those men in exchange for the chance to treat his wounds, and shuddered; it was too high a price.

"Abigail," He entreated, "You must promise - you must _swear_ \- that you will not put yourself in danger again for me. I'm not - My life is not worth that."

"And what if it is to me?" She said fiercely.

"Please -"

"Marcus," She reached out and cupped his cheek, her voice trembled but her touch was firm, "If you had bled to death and I could have done something to prevent it, I wouldn't have been able to live with that." Her thumb stroked gently back and forth, and Marcus felt a pressure in his chest that had nothing to do with his injuries. "If you had died, Marcus, they would have had me anyway. I thought, if I could at least save you..."

Marcus closed his eyes at the onslaught of emotion, at the thought of her making that choice, of being in that position at all. He had to force himself to breathe steadily; they were safe for now, it did not happen. But she had been ready to let it...

The thought of her extraordinary light being extinguished from the world was like being stabbed all over again. Marcus Kane had never experienced love, but he was certain this yearning agony could not be anything but. Lady Abigail had only really been in his life for a matter of days, if it were someone other than himself, Marcus would never have believed that such terrifyingly deep feelings could develop in so short a time. But he opened his eyes, looked up at her, and could no longer imagine his life without her. He was falling in love with her and he wanted to _keep_ falling.

He wanted to do everything in his power, and more than he ever thought he was capable of, to keep her alive and well.

"It's done," Abigail said abruptly, "It's over. We are alive, and we have found the children. Or rather they found us."

Marcus forced himself to swallow down the emotions threatening to burst forth and cleared his throat, "Yes, I've been meaning to ask: exactly how did that happen? And where are we?"

Abigail breathed a small laugh, and even that was enough to make his heart swell in his chest. Seven help him, he really was lost. She regaled him with the impossible tale Clarke had told her. Lexa, Jacob - firmly avoiding any discussion of Marcus' involvement in his death, though Marcus could still feel the guilt threatening to pull him under into despair once more - Luna Floudon and Dorne's alliance with what was left of House Trigeda, Lexa's fleet, and finally the attack on Cage Wallace and his men that saved his and Abigail's lives.

"Lord Wallace escaped," She murmured, avoiding his gaze for the first time, and sounding tired, perhaps even a little fearful. Hatred and fury rose within him that such a vile, contemptible man still breathed, and had left Abigail Griffin feeling this way.

"If I ever see him again, I will kill him." He practically growled, and then she took him by surprise when she raised her eyebrow and quirked her lips.

"What makes you think I won't do it myself?"

_Of course she would,_ he had no doubt then, and he simply gazed up at her with such fondness and admiration.

"In that case, I will hand you the blade and stand back to watch."

She smiled properly then, all white teeth and crinkles in the corners of her sparkling eyes, and it took his breath away. They chuckled together a little until he coughed and could help groaning in pain, then the worried crease between her eyebrows returned.

"You shouldn't..." She started.

"What? Laugh?" Marcus smiled, hoping to coax another one from her too.

"Just... don't exert yourself. Please." She took his hand in both of hers, thumbs rubbing gently back and forth over his skin, and he squeezed her fingers in return. She sighed and closed her eyes, and they listened to the dull roar of the sea, the creaking of the decking above their heads as the ship swayed with each wave.

"You have told me we're on Lexa's ship," Marcus said quietly, so as not to disturb the peace that had settled over them, "But not where we are going?"

"North," She answered, just as softly, "We're heading north."

"Is that wise?" He asked, "Wouldn't the King expect it if you went back home?"

"You should probably refrain from calling him the _King_ in Lexa's presence," She teased, before growing serious again. "I'm not going home. We're going to the Ice Fort." House Azgeda's seat, Marcus remembered, the Warden of the North. "Lexa will need the North if there is to be any chance of victory. She already has Dorne's support. Clarke and I will have to convince Roan to call the banners." Roan Azgeda, who had only recently inherited the title of Warden with the death of his father.

"And how will you do that?" Marcus asked, dread growing in the pit of his stomach at the thought that all of them - not just him, but Abby, Clarke, Bellamy, Octavia and Raven - were now caught in the middle of the inevitable conflict that would divide the country.

"The North remembers." She answered cryptically, and a little sadly, "Jacob was loyal to Roan's father."

The weight of their predicament seemed to settle like a heavy cloak across both their shoulders, uncertainty for their future like a tangible thing in the air.

"So you are joining this war." He said. A statement, because she seemed set on her path and he knew she would not be swayed if this was truly what she thought must be done.

"We cannot stop it. Everyone will have to pick a side eventually."

Marcus knew she was right. They were too wrapped up in it already. Even if Jacob had not died, would he and Clarke eventually have lead Abby to Lexa? And what of Marcus? Would he be on the opposing side with his head buried in the sand, bound by his oaths to a King who had lost his mind?

Marcus did not believe in fate, but he was sure that he and Abby would have been caught up in this war regardless. Despite the pain and hard truths they had been forced to endure since Jacob's death, Marcus was selfishly glad that he found himself on the right side, _and_ , he thought, as he and Abigail stared at each other, that he'd found someone worth fighting for.

"I meant what I said," Marcus' heart was thumping in his chest, and his stab wound ached in response, but he suddenly had to get it out. No matter what the future might bring, he wanted to face it at her side, "I'm not worthy of your forgiveness, Abby, but I want to help you."

"Marcus -" She had a strange expression on her face, something that looked like shock and pain and wonder all at once, but Marcus could not let her stop him in this moment, he feared he would lose the courage to continue. And he could not hear her rejection yet, if that was what it was.

"I have nothing left. Everything I had, everything I was, is back in King's Landing. No -" He smiled and shook his head when Abby looked aggrieved and ready to speak again, "It's alright. I am glad to leave it behind, it is not who I want to be anymore." They both took a deep breath at the same time, letting that sink in. Abby was looking at him intently, now silent, as if knowing the importance of what he had yet to say. He continued, "I turned my cloak. I broke the oaths I swore. Everything I believed in, everything I fought for, it's all gone. Everything... but you." She gasped then; her expressive eyes were wide, startled, and her hands grasped his almost painfully. If it weren't so heavy a moment he might've laughed at how he'd finally managed to render her speechless. He swallowed, steeling himself,

"I believe in _you_. I would follow you, if you'll let me. Abby... my sword, my honour, whatever is left of it, they are yours." _My heart too_ , he thought, but he could not throw himself over that precipice just yet, it was too soon. She could already turn him away here and now, and he would deserve it for failing Jake. "I would give my _life_ to save yours, Abby, you must know that. To keep you and your daughter safe. If you will let me stay, I will not let you down again."

He had pledged himself to her, and she knew it; her eyes were shining now with unshed tears and, as he gazed at her, he watched them overflow and trace wet paths down her cheeks. He longed to touch the softness of her skin and wipe them away, hating that he made her cry even though it was clear that it was not just from pain or grief; nothing so simple. Too many emotions flashed across her face for him to identify, and she shook her head a little disbelievingly, but she was smiling.

Oh, how she was smiling, and Marcus felt lightness and hope fill him, having rid himself of the burden of everything unsaid.

"Ser Marcus Kane," She breathed, her voice quivering, "How is it possible that our lives are so intertwined already? I do not think I could bear to be parted from you."

She reached out to touch his face as she had before, with both hands, but this time her fingers traced his features carefully; thumb sweeping over his forehead, pushing back the curls of dark hair, before travelling down his eyebrows, the slope of his nose, his cheeks, scratching a little in the course hairs of his beard. The sensations sent little shivers of pleasure through his aching body, and though he managed to suppress a moan, he could not stop his eyelids fluttering shut for a moment. They flew back open though when he felt the pads of her fingers brush his lips. She was looking at him and touching him like he was something precious; something she wanted to memorise and know by heart. Her hands moved again, one returning to stroke his hair, the other resting in the crook of his neck, right where his pulse must have been racing against her fingertips.

Somehow he found his voice to reply,

"Then nothing but death will tear me from your side, my lady." He said, and when she smiled tearfully, he knew she heard it as the endearment he meant it to be, rather than a formality.

"I have already forgiven you, Marcus," She whispered, and it was too much. His breath hitched and tears sprang to his eyes, leaking from the corners when he closed them, and soaking into the pillow beneath his head; he was so undeserving of this woman's kind heart. "Oh, Marcus," He heard her whisper, then she was shifting closer.

He looked up at her, now hovering over him, carefully keeping her weight off him by bracing one hand on the pillow next to his head. She was so close that he could see the tiny teardrops still clinging to her lashes, and each warm exhale whispered against his face.

Marcus couldn't breathe; his heart was still thundering like it knew of her proximity and was trying to reach hers. Then, with a gentle hand on his cheek, she ducked down and guided his mouth to meet hers.

Part of him had yearned for this since the moment he'd laid eyes on her; another, more fanciful, part felt as though he had been waiting his whole life. Her lips were soft and sweet moving leisurely against his own, and for a moment Marcus yielded completely. Then Jacob Griffin came to the forefront of his mind, and he froze. Abigail pulled back slightly, sensing something was wrong, and he was stunned at how well she already knew him when he murmured, "Abby," and she put a stop to his worries in their tracks.

"I loved Jacob," She said, and he fell silent, "I will always love him. But we were distant for a long time before he died. I have not had a husband for two years. And you..." She smiled and he felt impossibly adored, "You make me feel-" Her voice sounded thick and she paused for a moment, "I have not felt like this in so long."

"I have never felt like this," He whispered, the truth suddenly so easy to confess.

Her face pinched, and she released a breathy sound that was half joyous and half a sob. Marcus felt her fingers in his hair again, carding through thick brown waves.

"Jacob knew you are a good man," She said, "Just as I do."

He craned his neck to capture her lips then, pouring as much of his love as he could into the kiss, and he knew he would never get enough of her taste. He wished he could move to hold her; lift his arms to cradle her face and touch her with the care and devotion she deserved. But everything still hurt and he made a noise of pained frustration. Again, Abby seemed to understand without an explanation.

"Don't move," She whispered against his lips, "I told you not to exert yourself."

"You're making it very difficult for me to resist." He countered, between smaller, playful kisses.

He felt her smile against his mouth, bestow a final kiss, then withdrew, looking as regretful as he felt. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed, her lips red and wet, and despite his injuries and the vestiges of the painkiller in his veins, Marcus felt a flutter of desire in his belly; he was responsible for making her look like that.

"You should rest." She murmured, reaching for the cup of water on the table and helping him drink. He tasted a strange bitter tang to it and realised it must be laced with more milk of the poppy. He said nothing though, let her treat him as she saw fit, content that she was cutting down his dose at least.

"Will you stay?" He almost winced at the pleading edge to his tone, but he desperately did not want her to go just yet. She just smiled though, and took his hand once more, bent over him and kissed his forehead.

"Nothing could tear me from your side." She echoed his own words back at him, and Marcus felt like weeping again. Instead he smiled in gratitude as she settled down in the chair at his side, drew it as close as possible, and laid her head next to their joined hands on the bed.

He felt his eyelids growing heavy, warmth spreading through his body, and succumbed to the pull of sleep, even though he never wanted to stop looking at her. On the edge of consciousness, he felt her lips brush his hand,

"You are so very dear to me." She whispered.

_I am yours_ , was his last thought, as the ocean rocked them to sleep, _until the end of my days._


	11. Octavia II

Nothing in her life had prepared Octavia for the feeling of being out at sea. For the bracing wind whipping through her hair; air that smelled salty and pure expanding her lungs like she had never truly breathed before. She was surrounded by grey-blue water that seemed to stretch on forever, to the point where sea and sky collided, the waves rocking the decking under her feet, sometimes gently, sometimes violently. Her new friend Lincoln - if that was what he was to her, the way her stomach fluttered every time she looked at him told her something entirely different - commended her on her "sea legs" with what seemed like a glint of affectionate pride in his dark eyes. Bellamy was no longer watching their every interaction like an overprotective hawk, as he on the other hand had been a sickly pale, greenish colour ever since they'd set sail, and had spent most of his time heaving up the contents of his stomach over the side of the ship. Octavia was generally torn between amusement and sympathy depending on the day.

She felt free. She spent more time out on the open deck than almost anyone else, to the point where Lexa's people had begun to give her appraising looks. Even when they got further north and the seas and weather became rougher, Octavia opened her arms to the elements, let the sea spray hit her full in the face and laughed when the sky shook with thunder and lit up with forked lightning.

Bellamy and Clarke had taken to looking at her as though she had lost her mind, but Raven, who seemed to be busying herself by learning how to sail, genuinely smiled at her enthusiasm. Octavia was also utterly fascinated by the new side of Ser Marcus that had emerged from everything that had happened. She had only ever known him to be loyal to the King, though he heard and chose to ignore many a disparaging comment in the streets of King's Landing, sometimes from Octavia herself. He only ever frowned slightly and told her to mind what she was saying where so many other people could hear. She knew him as kind and patient, but occasionally strict, and serious a lot of the time. Of course _she_ made him laugh and smile because, as he had told her, she frequently delighted him, and he admired her spirit that had thrived as she grew older. He called her his "little wildfire" still, and secretly it pleased her, even if she might occasionally make a show of rolling her eyes.

But she had never seen Ser Marcus with a woman. She knew that knights of the Kingsguard were not allowed such entanglements, even swore oaths against it (which she had expressed to Bellamy she thought was utterly stupid.) When she was young, she had felt sad, because surely Ser Marcus, a good man, deserved to be loved? Wasn't the knight supposed to rescue the fair maiden and live happily ever after? Ser Marcus had only chuckled and ruffled her hair when she had said such a thing, and told her that his duty, and she and Bellamy, were enough. When she was older, and understood what a vow of celibacy meant, and those vows of taking no wife and fathering no children, she still thought it to be ridiculous. Whore houses were everywhere in Flea Bottom, and Octavia had seen enough to know that fucking was certainly no guarantee of love and marriage. Surely, she asked Bellamy, love could bloom regardless of whether sex was involved. Her brother looked uncomfortable, and then explained that it was more to do with loving anyone or anything that would take away Ser Marcus' loyalty to the King.

"But Ser Marcus loves us, doesn't he?" She'd asked, to which Bellamy replied that he wasn't supposed to. Knights of the Kingsguard, it seemed, did a lot of things they weren't supposed to. Octavia knew she'd had many glimpses of white cloaks entering the brothels of King's Landing. Never Ser Marcus, though.

Now, it seemed, he had let himself love a woman: Clarke's mother. A fairly recent widow.

Octavia did not know Lady Abigail, so did not think it fair to judge with so little information (besides, she was biased: she wanted Ser Marcus to be happy), but she could not help but wonder how Clarke felt about this development. She'd caught the other girl frowning in what seemed like confusion every time her mother made towards the cabin where Ser Marcus lay healing, which she did so several times a day. Octavia, up on deck at all hours, had even caught Lady Abigail slipping out of Ser Marcus' room at dawn, but discreetly chose to say nothing about it to anyone.

There was never any clothing out of place, she never looked any less put together than any other time Octavia saw her, but she knew that wasn't necessarily an indication of anything. She did consider that in his current state, surely Ser Marcus was not likely to be up to any strenuous activity, then firmly stopped that thought in its tracks.

When he had healed enough to one day venture out on deck (to Octavia's delight), Ser Marcus stood next to her in peaceful silence, steadying himself against the solid wood that made up the port side. He traced his fingers over the grain of the wood, tilted his head back and breathed deep, letting himself feel the salt spray that crashed against the ship's hull with closed eyes and a contented smile. On his other side, Octavia noted with amusement, Lady Abigail staring at him from a couple feet away, presumably there with the excuse of not letting him over exert himself.

Despite the cold breeze, the lady seemed a little flushed as her eyes flickered over the way his loose linen shirt exposed Ser Marcus' chest, and the way it, and the loose curls of rich brown hair falling around his neck, fluttered with the wind. Then she looked at the contentment on his face and the sheer softness and affection that appeared on her own was enough to endear her to Octavia. The lady cared deeply for Ser Marcus; Octavia saw it more and more with each passing day.

Whilst Lincoln was genuinely teaching her to fight better, sparring with her several hours a day, Ser Marcus' method of instruction seemed to mostly entail touching Lady Abigail as much as possible. He would place his larger, stronger body behind hers, one hand steadying her at her waist, the other held up parallel to hers, covering her hand where it held the dagger he'd given her, grasping it and guiding her movements whilst ostensibly murmuring instruction into her ear. Octavia doubted that was all he was saying to her, judging by the way Lady Abigail would smile and giggle and occasionally swat at him playfully, to which his own deep chuckles could be heard in response.

She could only smile at the sight; one couldn't deny how sweet they were together, or how protective they had become over each other. Perhaps she felt endeared towards them because of the feelings she herself felt building steadily day by day. As she and Lincoln grew more comfortable in one another's company, the more he was inclined to talk to her.

"I should like to travel to Essos and see your home," She said, as they looked out over the water together one day, "Now that I'm free, I don't ever want to go back. I'll just keep going, to the edge of the world."

Lincoln chuckled quietly, affectionately, "Perhaps I will take you to my home. Perhaps we'll travel to the Shadowlands beyond Asshai and find dragons."

Octavia pretended to pout, "You're mocking me."

"Only a little," He nudged her shoulder with his, "They say that there is nothing beyond the Shadowlands, but I've always thought that is because they're afraid. People still very much believe in sorcery and superstition in the east."

"And in dragons?" Octavia asked, only half teasing. She could see them in her mind's eye: majestic and terrifying, breathing fire and casting great shadows upon the ground as they flew overhead.

"I could see you riding a dragon." Lincoln replied, a glint of _something_ in his dark eyes that made heat flush through Octavia, excitement fluttering in her belly, "A fearless warrior."

Oh, how she wanted to be. "I'm not fearless."

Lincoln smiled, "And the better warrior you will be for admitting that. It is only when we're afraid that we can truly be brave. Come on."

He pushed away from the side of the ship and drew his weapon, gesturing for Octavia to do the same. She assumed the defensive stance that he had taught her, feeling her whole body settle into a different state of being, like she was transformed into a creature born with a blade in her hand, her blood thrumming in anticipation. Then she struck.

Lincoln taught her to fight with an arakh; a curved blade that allowed for great dexterity and motion. Watching Lincoln wield his when he wasn't holding back was almost hypnotic. The blade whirled and slashed through the air, both elaborate and vicious, beautiful and deadly. Octavia saw Ser Marcus with Lincoln and Indra one evening, when the seas were calm and the stars and moon shone brightly in a clear night sky, sat in serious discussion, weighing advantages and disadvantages of the arakh against the broadsword.

"Westerosi Knights wear armour in combat, an arakh may be quicker than a broadsword, but you could not pierce a breastplate with this." He explained, holding Lincoln's blade whilst Lincoln examined his sword, measuring the weight and feel of it in his hand. Ser Marcus looked to Indra, whose expression, Octavia was sure, had not changed from its fierce scowl since she had first set eyes on her back in Lexa's camp. The fact that she was sat here with them, Octavia could tell, had surprised them all. "If your Queen is to take back her throne," Ser Marcus told Indra, "Her army will have to adapt."

They all watched Lincoln stand and take a few experimental swings with Ser Marcus' sword. Indra remained stone faced for a moment before she replied, and Octavia could swear she saw a little tension finally leave her.

"It could be we have things to learn from one another."

Lincoln stilled, and Octavia - now used to reading his face - could tell that he was surprised but pleased. Ser Marcus offered a respectful nod and a small smile that turned into a cheeky grin when he glanced at Octavia.

He rotated his wrist, the arakh in hand, "I admit I'd like to learn; I can't have my little wildfire getting the best of me." He reached over and ruffled her long, dark hair as he had when she was a child, and Octavia squirmed away.

" _Ser_..." She complained, in a petulant tone she imagined many a young person might use when bemoaning a parent who was embarrassing them. She no longer felt as though she had anything to prove to Lincoln, but she wanted to appear strong in Indra's eyes. However, when she looked at the older woman, she found her watching the exchange between her and Ser Marcus with an almost soft expression. It was sad and tinged with longing, and within the blink of an eye it was gone again.

The next day Ser Marcus decided it was a good idea to start sparring with Lincoln too; in his own words:

"I'm fed up of resting and wasting away. I need to build up my strength again."

Octavia, and (she suspected) many others, still noticed the way he tried to hide his wince every time he turned too sharply, the stab wound still raw, healing slowly. Despite the chilly wind of the northern seas, more of Lexa's people gravitated to the training area they'd claimed up on deck - Bellamy and Raven also appearing to spar and observe, respectively - and there seemed to be an unspoken agreement amongst them not to mention Ser Marcus' injuries.

Lady Abigail had no such qualms. She stood glaring at him from the sidelines, arms folded, her displeasure and concern clear. She'd tried arguing with him, Octavia had heard her perfectly reasonable objections as she finished up her own session with Lincoln.

"I understand feeling restless, Marcus, but I swear if you tear something I spent hours sewing back  
together -"

Ser Marcus stopped her with a hand on her shoulder and a kiss to her forehead that was at once casual, yet incredibly intimate. Octavia had searched for Clarke amongst those milling the deck, but she had not borne witness to the public display of affection.

"I know my limits, Abby."

Apparently he did not.

He and Lincoln divided their time and instruction between the two types of swords, switching the roles of teacher and apprentice. Despite having grown up learning to craft Westerosi weapons and armour, and being familiar with the feeling of a broadsword in her hand, Octavia already knew that she preferred the arakh. It played to her strengths as a fighter, Lincoln had said; she was small, but she was quick and agile, and strong from her years of hammering steel.

Ser Marcus, however, was still too sore to move fluidly, even though he had keenly picked up the movements Lincoln was showing him and was adjusting his fighting style accordingly, after stretching himself too far one too many times, he grimaced and hissed in pain. A bloom of crimson appeared on his shirt: he'd bled through his dressings, Octavia realised with alarm.

"Seven bloody hells..." He sighed in resignation, and turned around as if he knew he'd find Lady Abigail storming over to him angrily.

"What did I tell you?" She snapped, yanking his shirt up in a way that could hardly be proper for a lady, but Octavia was fast learning that Lady Abigail found propriety about as tiresome as she did.

She gentled her touch though as she peeled the bandage back with careful, precise fingers. Octavia ducked to peer at the wound herself, curiosity getting the better of her. It looked nowhere near as bad as when she'd first seen it, when she thought he was dying in that bloodied clearing, but it was still red and not yet healed over, bleeding sluggishly; the dark thread of Lady Abigail's stitches stood out starkly against his pale skin.

"You've torn a stitch." Lady Abigail chided him. She covered the wound once more and straightened with a huff, "Idiot." She stated firmly, looking him in the eye. Octavia had never heard anyone speak to Ser Marcus like that, and she didn't know what to expect. Certainly not the smile that he seemed to be fighting to control. "Back to bed with you so I can take care of it."

There were a couple of suggestive cheers and laughter from the people around them, and Ser Marcus was full on grinning now. Octavia was sure she felt more embarrassed than Lady Abigail, who appeared entirely unflustered until Ser Marcus' next words:

"It's as though we're married already."

Octavia knew her eyes went wide, and she actually clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent a gasp from escaping. Many of Lexa's people continued with their sparring, uninterested in the magnitude of the moment playing out between the lady and her knight, but Octavia was rapt with attention, watching as some kind of conversation took place between Ser Marcus and Lady Abigail without either of them saying a word. She shot a look over at Bellamy, but he too was engrossed once more in swordplay. Lincoln simply raised an eyebrow at her before she couldn't help be pulled back to the scene in front of her.

They held each other's gaze intently, Ser Marcus' grin softening to something tender and loving and _meaningful_ , his eyes flitting over Abigail's face as he tried to read her response. It looked to Octavia as though the lady had stopped breathing, her eyes wide and shining, equally searching. Ser Marcus gave the barest of nods as if to say: _I do not jest_ , and the most radiant smile blossomed on Abigail's face. She appeared to struggle a little to remain composed as she stepped closer to him, neither of them taking their eyes off the other, both utterly captivated and locked in only this moment together, uncaring of Octavia, or anyone else, watching them. It was beautiful, she thought, and pure and true, and she suddenly felt fiercely protective of this love she bore witness to.

"Already?" Lady Abigail murmured, smiling and teasing, "I was not aware that you had proposed, Ser?"

She was so enchanting, Octavia could hardly blame Ser Marcus for falling for her. She watched him reach for the lady's hand and bring it to his lips. His kiss was brief and chaste, nothing that would be out of place or improper in any court, but his manner was so reverent, his eyes dark with promise as he held her gaze, that it seemed something altogether far more intimate and impassioned. Octavia was sure she was blushing.

"Consider this a fair warning then, my lady." Ser Marcus said, his voice low and rough, and Octavia would have sworn that they were about to throw all sense of discretion out the window and kiss right there on the deck, were it not for the rising murmurs of "my Queen" all around them, and the sounds of clashing swords falling quiet.

Octavia looked up towards the bow of the ship and saw Lexa and Clarke standing on the upper deck near the helm. The Queen had apparently bestowed some mantle of leadership upon Clarke and the two spent much of their time together these days. What exactly they were discussing and planning, Octavia was not sure, but Lexa held Lincoln in some confidence, and Lincoln informed Octavia that their talk mostly concerned the loyalties of noble houses.

"We have the support of Dorne, in the south," He'd explained, "Now we head north in the hope that Lady Clarke and Lady Griffin can persuade them to join our cause too."

It was not lost on Octavia that he had put Clarke first, as though her influence might somehow be greater. Unconsciously following Lexa's lead, she wondered, or did he not actually mean anything by it?

Cloaked in heavy black fur, Lexa now surveyed those gathered upon the deck whilst Clarke stared at her mother and Ser Marcus, still standing hand in hand. Lady Abigail met her gaze head on and smiled in welcome; she did not move to put a more appropriate distance between herself and her knight, and Clarke's responding smile was small, overshadowed by her puzzled frown.

"It pleases me to see you training with our allies," Lexa said, in the same even, authoritative tone Octavia always heard her use, "But silence and stealth is needed for this part of our journey." As the warriors dispersed, Octavia was momentarily distracted by the sight of her brother talking with Lincoln, and found herself growing tense, wondering if she would have to intervene, before she heard Lexa speak again, this time closer, but no longer addressing everyone at large.

"Ser Marcus, are you hurt?"

Octavia turned to see Lexa and Clarke making their way down the wooden steps towards them. Ser Marcus hastened to assure her - and no doubt all of them - that her concern was not necessary.

"Overexerted myself a little, your Grace, that's all. I've already been properly scolded," He glanced at Lady Abigail, still close by his side, "It's nothing Abb - I mean, Lady Abigail cannot easily fix."

Clarke's eyes flickered between them, but Lexa let his familiarity with the lady pass without comment. Instead she nodded and turned to Abigail.

"My lady, we are just passing the Iron Islands and Clarke tells me their fleet is formidable."

Lady Abigail's face fell, "She's right. And the Ironborn tend to be ruthless and hostile towards mainlanders. If we can slip by unnoticed..."

"That would be for the best." Lexa finished. She looked up at the grey clouds overhead, "The light is falling. The cover of darkness could work to our advantage."

"And then where?" Clarke asked (a little sharply, it seemed to Octavia) looking between her mother and Lexa, "We cannot make port and remain undiscovered."

There was silence for a moment where Octavia felt out of her depth and very much like the little girl who had never travelled outside of King's Landing before, who knew very little of the country she lived in. For the most part, the others seemed to have forgotten that she was there, but when she caught Ser Marcus' eye, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards and he gave her a helpless little shrug as if to say he was none the wiser than her right now. It was up to Abigail and Clarke, who knew the north better than anyone else currently sailing with them.

"The wolfswood," Lady Abigail finally said, decisively, "We dock where the wolfswood meets the shore and ride from there to the Ice Fort."

Clarke was frowning, almost as if she was searching for a reason to find fault with this plan, but eventually nodded.

"I'm placing my trust in you and Clarke," Lexa said to Abigail, "You will do well to ensure it is not misplaced." The implicit threat was clear, and Ser Marcus, consciously or not, stepped forward a little as if to put himself between the two women.

It did not go unnoticed by Clarke, who looked as though she was about to say something about it to her mother, but Octavia, perhaps wanting to spare the couple from an awkward discussion for a little while longer, spoke up before the other girl could.

"Ser Marcus is still bleeding." She said, pointedly, which startled Lady Abigail into action and she began tugging him in the direction of his cabin.

Octavia, not particularly keen on being left alone with the Queen and her new favourite adviser, quickly excused herself and crossed the deck to where Raven was sat, examining an arakh with interest.

"I hope they have good forges up north," Raven said, grinning up at her, "I've got big plans, O."

For a moment, it was as if they were back in their shop, Raven's mind alight with new ideas, and there were no worries weighing them down.

Octavia smiled back.


	12. Abby IV

Stepping onto dry land - or rather partially dry land, given the snow that coated the ground - after a fortnight or so at sea, came as a relief to Abby. All the more so that it was _her_ land; the harsh, frozen north that was her home, as wild and untamed and unpredictable as she herself felt these days.

They docked as she'd suggested, where the Wolfswood met the muddy shore, far enough away from Deepwood Motte that they would not be noticed, and together Abby and Clarke led the way for Lexa's entourage, cold and miserable as they were in the unfamiliar climate. It was clearly bad enough for those amongst them who lived in King's Landing - Marcus, Bellamy, Octavia and Raven rode hunched over, curling into themselves to conserve body heat, and shivering - Abby couldn't imagine what it must have been like for Lexa's people, coming from the east; they seemed to have been prepared somewhat, bringing with them warmer layers of clothing, heavy furs and thick wool, but the wind bit and chafed at exposed skin and many amongst their party - having been either raised in Essos or the south of Westeros - had never even seen snow before. The end of the long summer and the approach of winter was most evident here in the north, and it promised to be a hard one. Abby wondered how old Octavia was and if she'd yet seen a winter in her lifetime.

She would have teased Marcus about his lack of constitution when it came to the cold, but he had withdrawn into himself in the last few days, not so easily meeting Abby's eye or reaching out to touch her as he had let himself do during his recovery. Since that first kiss...

The mere memory of it, and the building, exploratory kisses they'd shared since, was enough to heat Abby's blood against the chill. Marcus kissed her deeply, with such reverence and focus, as though determined to learn and perfect the exact way she liked to be kissed. His touch, though it had not yet strayed further below the safety of her clavicle, left tendrils of heat in its wake so that she _ached_ to feel those long, graceful fingers everywhere on her body. He liked to bury them in the long, honey waves of her hair as his lips moved over hers, just as she liked the feel of his rich, silky curls.

She'd grown used to his warm, solid body reclining against hers in sleep, the only intimacy they could afford themselves - other than kissing - whilst he was still healing. It surprised Abby, how much she'd missed the feeling of sharing a bed with a man, and she loved learning the particular sounds and motions of Ser Marcus Kane whilst he slept: his gentle snores when he laid on his back and the way he curled his body around hers, holding her tightly as though, even subconsciously, he was trying to protect her from the world. She soaked it all in, every tiny detail, knowing that she was falling deeper in love with him every passing day and no longer had any hope of retrieving the piece of her heart that belonged to him unbroken. Which was why she felt cold dread grow in the pit of her stomach when he began to pull away from her.

That day on the deck had changed everything.

Marcus' playful, almost-proposal had not put them off-balance initially; the rest of the day had played out like any other, with the exception of Abby having to restitch his wound, her touch lingering just a little too long on the firm, heated skin of his abdomen to be entirely that of a physician's. They had fallen asleep in each other's arms that night as had become their routine, but the next day Marcus was closed off to her. No doubt from the outside one would not have been able to tell: he still smiled at her, still bestowed small affectionate touches, but in a rather off-hand, distracted sort of way, not allowing his eyes nor his hands to stay on her for longer an a brief moment. He took to seeking out Octavia and Bellamy's company, Lincoln's, or even Indra's, with whom he seemed to have struck up a strange sort of rapport, and Abby was left feeling as though a conversation had happened between them that she hadn't been party to. His change in demeanour was so subtle and yet, at the same time, so glaringly obvious to Abby that she wondered when exactly she had become so finely tuned to his every shift in mood or movement.

His distance hurt her, and she made sure he knew it. When it grew dark that night he oh-so gallantly suggested that she share Clarke's chamber from now on, as he was healed enough now that they could no longer use the excuse of Abby having to be nearby in case of emergency.

"I don't want anyone to think -" He'd paused, searching for the right words whilst Abby yearned to yell at him that she didn't _care_ what anybody thought. "I don't want to bring any dishonour upon you, Abigail." Marcus finally said, not meeting her eye. He was trying to be gentle, but Abby felt rejected nonetheless, hurt and confused, and she'd swallowed it down just long enough to utter:

"You only dishonour yourself, _Ser_ ," Before turning her back on him to hide the angry tears that formed as she walked away.

The next morning they made port.

Had he changed his mind? Abby wondered as they rode in a convoy quietly through the trees. Had he said it all in the heat of the moment, or under the influence of milk of the poppy, and now regretted what he had lead her to believe was a deep and abiding love growing between them? Had she been fooling herself in thinking that this was _more_ than just a bond forged under extreme, life or death circumstances? Had Marcus' non-proposal brought him crashing back to reality and now he was going to leave her brokenhearted and missing that which she only got the smallest taste of: a life with him?

Abby glanced at Clarke, riding silently by her side; no doubt she had a thing or two to tell her mother regarding whatever she'd witnessed happening between her and Ser Marcus, and Abby couldn't blame her. If she were an outside observer, not privy to the depth of emotion that had flowed, raw and unbridled, between them, the connection that had formed almost instantaneously, she would have seen a recent widow throwing herself at the first handsome knight to come to her rescue.

Anger bubbled and churned with her injured pride and hurt feelings, just barely contained, and _only_ kept in check because Abby refused to believe that she had misread Marcus so completely. Everything in her heart told her that the words they had exchanged at his bedside, all the promise that lay behind his dark, fervent gaze, was heartfelt and true, and as such something else was causing him to withdraw his attentions. Doubts were plaguing him for some reason; whether he was doubting himself or Abby it was unclear, but gods, she wished he'd just _talk_ to her instead of pushing her away.

Two horses moved forward to flank them on either side, their riders clearly tense and wary, eyes scanning the frozen thicket surrounding them. Bellamy was on Abby's far left next to Clarke, she noted, whilst Marcus rode next to her on her right. Out of the corner of her eye, Abby could see him stealing glances at her, a kind of painful yearning on his face, only for his eyes to quickly darted away when she turned to frown at him.

He was guarding her, she knew, him and Bellamy both taking it upon themselves to shield the Griffin women from any hypothetical danger. Marcus hovered protectively, once more garbed in layers of wool, leather and fur so that the sight and feel of his bare skin seemed like a distant dream. A hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword as he sat astride Eden, and in that moment she felt far more affection for the horse than for him, bristled and chafed at the unspoken implication that she couldn't take care of herself. That she didn't _know_ this land like the back of her hand.

"To hells with this," Abby muttered, more to herself than anyone else, and squeezed her horse's sides with her heels, breaking into an easy sort of gallop, away and ahead of the rest of the group.

There were cries of her name behind her but Abby didn't care, she just wanted to lose herself to the harsh northern winds for a while, to the thud of hoofbeats reverberating through her. She could almost pretend she was a child, riding carefree through these woods with her mother; or riding and laughing with Jacob in the early days of their courtship.

She suddenly missed him desperately, longed for his strength and integrity and, of course, his love. Branches and leaves covered in snow whipped at her, and her cloak billowed out behind her, exposing her to the cold, but Abby paid no mind to any of it, wishing only to outrun all her worries for just a moment. It was all too much to bear, the weight of all the possible consequences for not only her choices, but Clarke's, Marcus'... Lexa's, who she barely knew, and with whom she'd thrown in her lot, trusted her fate and her daughter's, because there was no other option.

Except to run, whispered a voice in the back of her head. Run away across the Narrow Sea and disappear into a strange country, hoping to escape the King's reach. But given what lengths he'd gone to to silence those who opposed him, who was to say if they'd ever be safe? Who was to say if Lexa would be any better, if by some miracle she won the iron throne, given the legacy of brutality her father left behind? _They were all butchers in the_ _end_ , Abby thought, blinking away the sudden tears that came to her eyes and telling herself it was because of the wind, _holding the kingdoms together with fear and blood._

She'd thought maybe she was strong enough; she'd thought she could face the challenges and difficulties that lay before her head on, with Marcus at her side. They'd fallen into this mess together after all - though perhaps in the end she'd dragged him in against his will? - and she'd thought as long as they could stand together, hand in hand...

But he'd left her alone and afraid, when he swore that he never would.

A choked sob escaped her but it was carried away by the wind, and the tears she'd fought desperately against felt like they were freezing on her face when suddenly the trees thinned out and she beheld a wide, open, frosty landscape. The north stretched on for miles and miles with a kind of stark, savage beauty beneath a clear, blue sky. It took Abby's breath away even now, silent and still but for the rush of the wind. In the distance, over rolling hills, Abby could see the Ice Fort, and further south, she knew, would be Griffin's Point.

_Home_.

Her moment of peace and solitude was broken by the sound of another horse thundering out from  
the trees.

"Abby, what in the seven hells was that about?" Marcus demanded, and she looked over to see him staring at her, wide eyed and incredulous. He seemed angry and fearful in equal measure and she took petty satisfaction in making him feel even a fraction of what she was feeling. "You can't just go haring off alone like that!"

Abby clenched her jaw and raised her chin, trying her best to look haughty and indifferent, "I know every square mile of these lands, Ser, I've been walking and riding through them since I was eight years old."

She tried not to think about how well she knew his face that she could spot the small flinch that crossed it at her overly formal tone. Marcus urged Eden closer to her own horse, until he was within touching distance and his leg was brushing against hers.

"I have no doubt that you know where you're going," He said, and damn him, he didn't sound the slightest bit condescending, only earnest, concern clouding those soulful, brown eyes. "But the King will be looking for you, Abby, and for Clarke."

"And for _you_ ," she said, but Marcus just shrugged; as always, he seemed to care far less for his own safety and it infuriated her. "And for you," She repeated, emphatically, "You are in as much danger as I am, perhaps even more so, for your betrayal is greater than mine."

"All that matters to me is that _you_ are safe." Marcus growled, and Abby felt an involuntary shiver run through her at his tone, almost territorial, as though he was daring the world to try and take her from him. She heard his words again, from that first conversation at his bedside, echoing in her mind where they would forever be remembered and cherished: _nothing but death will tear me from your side._

That impassioned, devoted man was still there beneath the careful facade, the man who Abby once more believed loved her just as she loved him, and she was determined to root out the cause of whatever was standing between them in Marcus' mind.

"And what about happy?" She asked, softer now, tentatively lowering her defences and reaching out to place her hand over his. Their gloves were a hindrance; Abby wanted to feel his skin, hands that she had traced and learned in the last week, tanned from the southern sun, rough and callused in places from wielding a sword over the years. Marcus didn't pull away nor break her gaze as she silently entreated him to let her in once more. "Does it matter to you if I'm happy, Marcus?"

His brow furrowed as he sucked in a breath, "Does it -?" He seemed shocked, "Abby, of _course_ it matters to me, I -"

She swore he'd been leaning in towards her, reaching out with the hand not captured in her own, until shouts broke through the tenuous, yet familiar, connection that had reemerged between them:

"Mother!"

"Lady Abigail!"

Marcus startled, and so, in turn, did Eden, but she was too well behaved to do anything more than whinny a little and back away slightly from Abby's horse and the newcomers that sprung into view. It had been Clarke and Lexa calling them, and who approached first, flanked by Bellamy and Indra respectively. They were clearly displeased.

"Mother, what's gotten into you?" Clarke demanded, "It's not safe, for one thing, and we need to stay together!"

Abby was ready to snipe back that she didn't take orders from her own daughter, but one look at Lexa's stony expression and she just about managed to bite her tongue. Lexa didn't say anything, but looked between Abby and Marcus with grave consideration; Clarke, Abby noticed, was watching her.

"Lady Griffin," Lexa finally addressed her, "You know we must tread carefully, and I'm trusting you to be my ambassador with Roan Azgeda. I need to know that the troubles of your heart will not interfere with this task. That you'll remain clear headed."

Marcus and Clarke were both frowning at her; the former looked worried over the potential "troubles" of her heart, the latter seemed angry still. Clear-headed was the last thing Abby felt with her warring emotions and need to soothe both the people who were dearest to her, even if Marcus was the one who should be explaining himself to _her_. Still, she outwardly composed herself,

"I can talk to Roan, have no fear, your Grace. I've known him since he was a child. You will get your alliance."

It was a bold statement and everyone knew it - Abby could guarantee no such thing - but Lexa nodded,

"Alright then. We keep moving." This last she spoke loud enough for everyone to hear, "Clarke," She turned to her companion, "Perhaps you should use this time, before we reach the Ice Fort, to talk to your mother."

It was difficult to say, out of the two Griffin women, who winced harder at the thought of such an impending conversation, but Abby knew it needed to be had, and as the procession ordered themselves once more, she and her daughter fell into step again at the head of it.

Marcus, she noticed, fell back amongst the ranks, next to Lincoln, perhaps content to watch over her from afar now that there were less places for an enemy to hide out in the open. Perhaps eager to make himself scarce. Abby lowered her voice nonetheless, since Octavia and Raven, sharing a horse, seemed to have no qualms about attempting to unabashedly eavesdrop, and Abby didn't even know the two girls beyond what little Clarke had written about them in her letters.

"She's very good at reading people," Abby said, stealing a glance at her daughter, "The Queen, I mean."

Clarke finally sighed, some of the tension dropping from her shoulders, "Far too good," she muttered, resentfully, prompting a fresh load of questions to flood Abby's brain in regards to this new association of her daughter's. Clarke's gaze turned to the horizon and the turrets of their destination, towering high above the ground, "You don't really know Lord Roan that well, do you?"

"Your father and I were on fairly civil terms with his mother," Abby answered, "We had to be. When her husband died she was essentially Lord Paramount and Warden of the North until Roan came of age." She met Clarke's eyes, allowing herself the luxury of a small smile, "There was even talk of you and he becoming betrothed at one point."

"Oh, I know," Clarke said, lightly, with a playful smile of her own that said she was revelling in Abby's surprise. "We both knew. Roan and I. We thought it was pretty funny at the time."

Abby absorbed this, feeling, not for the first time since reuniting with Clarke, that there was so much she didn't know about her daughter. During her time in King's Landing, Clarke had become an adult and, in many ways, a stranger to her. Abby had felt increasingly disconnected, both from her and from Jacob.

"So it seems this would be another task better suited to you than to me." She said, hating the bitter tinge that crept into her voice but feeling somewhat obsolete and useless; like Clarke, like _no one,_ really needed her anymore.

"I didn't ask for this," Clarke said, sharply, "Lexa seems to think that I lead my friends to her with some revolutionary plan in mind, when really I was just desperate and scared." At that, she sounded like the honest, stubborn little girl Abby knew so well, looking to her mother for guidance, "I don't know what I'm doing."

"I don't think any of us do, really," Abby murmured, knowing that she herself felt as though the solid foundations of her life had crumbled and that she was being carried away by a current so strong she could do nothing but fight to keep her head above water.

"So you don't know what it is you're doing then... with Ser Marcus?" Clarke asked, bluntly cutting to the the point of the conversation, but instead of feeling ashamed or guilty, Abby felt only renewed resolve and certainty in her feelings for Marcus. Whatever was troubling him right now, whatever misunderstandings might occur between them, after their brief confrontation earlier, Abby felt sure they could work their way through them.

Marcus loved her; he'd sworn himself to her and she had learned just how seriously he took his oaths.

"Clarke," She began, wondering exactly how to phrase her feelings so that her daughter might understand. "I know how this must look..."

"Do you?" Clarke interrupted, "Because it looks as though you were simply waiting for father to drop dead before taking another man to your bed -"

"That's enough!" Abby snapped, furious at her impertinence, "I _loved_ your father, Clarke. I love him still and I always will, and you will not cheapen or belittle what we had together with accusations like this!" She appeared to have stunned Clarke into reprimanded silence for a moment at least, so she continued, "I would _think_ that you know me, and you know Ser Marcus, well enough to understand that we do not take this lightly. We both have reasons not to pursue this... courtship. But whatever this is between us, it's real, Clarke, and it's... it's powerful."

Clarke expression was hurt and indignant, "But father -"

"You must understand, sweetheart... For two years, you and your father were living at the other end of the country, and I remained faithful. I was never tempted to do otherwise. Jacob and I... we exchanged letters but the longer we were apart, the more it felt like I was writing to a stranger rather than my husband." Abby knew it couldn't be easy for Clarke to hear about her parents growing apart, but, as she'd observed earlier, she was an adult, and Abby was going to treat her as such. It would not do to coddle her, not when she needed Clarke to accept her feelings for Marcus. "I've been missing Jacob for a lot longer than he's been dead, Clarke..." Her voice broke as the grief she'd kept buried since travelling to King's Landing rose to the surface and she  
swallowed around the tightness in her throat.

"He couldn't come home," Clarke said, and when Abby looked at her she saw tears in her eyes too; Clarke held her gaze, the two of them finally seeing each other clearly, and conversing with frank, open honesty. As much as it hurt to talk about Jacob, Abby was relieved. "He would have. He wanted to, but the King..."

"I know." Abby said, simply. She had always known that Jacob wasn't the one keeping them apart, that it wasn't his choice. And soon enough it wasn't just his position on the small council that bade him stay in the capital, but Clarke's betrothal to the prince as well. Jacob would never have left Clarke alone in the viper's nest that was King's Landing.

Clarke had let her tears fall without trying to conceal them, and had they not been riding Abby would've wrapped her arms around her, cradling her child in their shared grief.

"I miss him," Clarke sobbed, and Abby could only nod, the stabbing pain in her chest and the lump in her throat robbing her of words. She could not afford to break down now, not having just assured Lexa of her ability to control her emotions and focus on her task.

She shivered as the icy wind snuck beneath her heavy winter cloak, and remembered the warmth and comfort she felt when riding Eden with Marcus, safely ensconced in his arms. Abby glanced behind her to find him already watching her, concern evidently writ on that face that had become so dear to her. She ached for him and she missed Jacob, yet somehow that didn't seem wrong to her; somehow they could co-exist in her heart without one taking precedence over the other.

"Does he make you happy?" Clarke's question drew Abby's attention back to her, having followed her mother's gaze towards the knight in question, "You seemed happy on the ship. But you were upset when you rode ahead earlier..."

The question held significant weight and Abby paused as she gave it the consideration it deserved, "There has been so little to be happy about since Jacob died and everything we've been caught up in since."

"Of course."

"But what little happiness I've been able to find has been with him. And in having my daughter back."

Clarke's smile was genuine then, if still a little tremulous, and she reached over the space between their horses to squeeze Abby's hand. It felt as though, amidst all the madness, something in the world had righted itself, like a puzzle piece slotting back into place.

"He's always seemed like a good man," Clarke said, and Abby's heart swelled with gratitude at the tentative acceptance in her words, "He's always been good to me."

The Ice Fort was starting to loom over them now as their party drew closer, riding in the shadows of its towers; any guards on duty would have spotted them by now and informed their Lord of their approach. Abby felt her stomach turn over with apprehension and perhaps it showed on her face even as she tried to steel herself with determination, because Clarke squeezed her hand again,

"We can do this." Her demeanour was that of the Clarke Lexa believed was a leader; a strong, confident young woman who was ready to face the challenges thrown at her head on. Who was ready to go to war to right the wrongs inflicted upon her family. The queen had seen that in Clarke before Abby had, but she was seeing her daughter much more clearly now, and she was proud.

The motherly urge to protect, to believe that she knew what was best for her child, was still there, but Clarke had said "we", a statement that united them together as equals, and Abby now understood that she needed to compromise. Their relationship had changed, realigned, _grown_.

As they neared the moat and Clarke had exchanged a glance of wordless communication with Lexa, who had joined them at the front of their convoy, she quickly turned back to her mother before everyone's concentration inevitably shifted to the Lord of the Ice Fort and gaining his allegiance.

"I'm sorry you felt alone, mother, I would never want that for you."

Her bright blue eyes - Jacob's eyes - were anxious and sincere, and Abby reached out a gloved hand to stroke the worry from her brow.

"Well, I have _you_ back now, don't I?" She smiled; whatever happened with Marcus, she would have Clarke, the most important piece of Abby's heart, who nodded her agreement.

"Who goes there?" Demanded a brash northern voice above their heads, and Abby looked up at the Azgeda men guarding the entrance to the courtyard.

"Lady Abigail Griffin and my daughter Clarke." She announced with as much authority as she could muster, "And... friends." She added, awkwardly.

There was a brief pause before they heard a deep, rough voice command, "Lower the gate."

Chains rattled and turned as the thick, iron studded, wooden door fell to bridge the gap separating them from the castle, and the portcullis rose to reveal Lord Roan, standing tall and proud, with half a dozen men at his side.

He'd grown into a strong and handsome man, Abby observed, and seemed to carry the power and weight of his position well. Keen, piercing eyes swept over their party, his shoulder-length brown hair half tied back away from a long, regal face that remained impassive as he studied them.

"Lady Griffin," He addressed Abby with a slight bow. Turning to her daughter, his lips twitched behind his beard in the slightest hint of a smile, "Clarke."

"Roan," Came Clarke's wry response, "We need your help."

The Lord of the Ice Fort rolled his eyes.

"Of course you do.


	13. Clarke II

The Ice Fort was less... icy than Clarke remembered it being. Not literally, of course, but there was a more welcoming, _warmer_ atmosphere to the place that she imagined had everything to do with its current liege Lord as opposed to its former one. Clarke could not remember Roan's father, but Lady Nia had scared her as a child; she had been harsh and unforgiving in imposing the King's rule in the north, and there seemed to be no warmth or affection in her as a person, even towards her own children. Somehow, though he was often stoic or sarcastic, Roan seemed to have escaped inheriting her personality.

He had always been pleasant company when she was younger, and Clarke even recalled thinking she could be forced to do so much worse than marry him. She had heard horror stories, especially at court since she'd been in King's Landing, of young ladies married off to real brutes of men, or men far older than them. Not that Clarke imagined her parents would have allowed that to happen, but it was almost a relief to her that Roan seemed to genuinely respect and like her. Clarke never found him dull; his humour was droll and he had about as little patience with the pantomime of thebhighborn as she did.

It didn't hurt that he was young and handsome too, and had only grown more so since Clarke had seen him last.

How much she could trust him when it came to Lexa though was still a question in her mind. As they were allowed into the grounds she found herself growing wary of the guards and how their eyes followed Lexa and her people with distrust and sometimes hostility. Clarke's mother lead the way with Roan, and Lexa and Clarke followed side by side with the rest of their company following behind them. Clarke had grown used to having Lexa close, as though her presence naturally fitted in next to her, and through their time together - talking, planning, confiding - she liked to think she had gotten a glimpse of Lexa Trigeda the _person_ , as opposed to the Queen who had to keep up the facade of command.

It was ridiculous to feel protective of her, for Lexa was far more capable than Clarke of defending herself, but she felt it nonetheless, and of the strange bond they had formed so easily, as though they were kindred spirits. Lexa had faith in her, and the last thing Clarke wanted to do was forsake that.

She was surprised and impressed when she spoke up, asking that they be allowed to talk to Roan privately, and he agreed after only a brief assessing look at her.

"You're bringing these Essosi savages into my home and I'm trusting you to have a good reason for it." He was, however, brutally honest at the worse possible times, and Clarke winced as his voice echoed along the hallway as they walked towards the great hall. She stepped forward next to her mother and daren't look behind her at Lexa or Indra's expressions but shared an apprehensive glance with her.

"Glad to hear you still trust me." She tried for a lighter tone but it sounded unconvincing to her own ears and Roan raised an eyebrow,

"Are you about to give me a reason not to?"

"It's about Lord Jacob," Lady Abigail cut in, just as Roan pushed through a pair of heavy double doors and they all filed into the larger, decorated space of the great hall.

Several blazing hearths crackled merrily along the walls and Clarke almost sighed aloud as she was engulfed in the room's cosy heat; out of corner of her eye, she saw Octavia and Raven visibly relax more they than had since they'd stepped off the relative safety (and shelter) of Lexa's ship and, when their queen nodded her permission, joined many of Lexa's people in letting their guard down in favour of crowding close to one of the fires. Ser Marcus, Clarke noticed, maintained a careful distance between himself and her mother, close enough that she was always in his sights, but not hovering within her personal space. It was perplexing, to say the least; if he was attempting to be discreet, the undivided concern and care in his gaze had him failing completely. Clarke wondered if her mother could _feel_ the weight of it as his eyes followed her.

Bellamy looked at Clarke, clearly still wary, and she could hear him in her head saying, "What now, princess?" But before either she or her mother could continue, Roan spoke,

"I was very sorry to hear about Lord Jacob," There was genuine sorrow on his face, "People are always so eager to speak well of the dead, but more often than not are insincere. When I say Jacob was a good man, I mean it." He held first Abigail's gaze then Clarke's, "He... Many times he was a father to me when I sorely needed one."

Clarke tried to hide her surprise, and felt guilty when her mind immediately leapt to how they could use Roan's heretofore unknown sense of indebtedness to their advantage. Clearly he was fonder of her parents than she knew.

"I'm... so glad that he could be there for you when you needed him." Her mother murmured; her smile was soft and her eyes kind, her whole demeanour that of the gentle healer Clarke had witnessed so many times before. "He loved you like a son as well, you know, as do I. Even if we could not see you as often as we liked. I'm grateful for every time you visited me."

_What?_ This time the surprise was too great; Clarke had been sure, almost smug even, that she knew Roan better than her mother, but it seemed Roan had been more family to Abigail than Clarke or Jacob had whilst they'd been away. Once again, she felt a stab of guilt.

"Who are these people, Abigail?" Roan asked lowly, and Clarke, glancing at Ser Marcus, was not the only one who noticed the informality between them. The knight was looking between her mother and Roan with a furrow in his brow, clenching his jaw. After witnessing the distress in her mother earlier, Clarke felt he could do to feel a little insecure.

"My name is Lexa Trigeda," Lexa stepped forward so that she was facing Roan, looking not remotely intimidated by his larger frame. Not that Clarke expected her to. "And I'm here because I believe we can help each other."

If Roan was shocked or worried by Lexa's presence he didn't show it, he merely looked at her with a humourless smile,

"Is that so?" He turned on Clarke, as if somehow he'd reached the conclusion that she and Lexa were co-conspirators leading him into a trap, and hissed, "You realise you've lead me to commit treason just by having her in my home?"

Bellamy's hand fell on his sword and he made to step in between them, glaring.

"Bellamy." Ser Marcus' voice joined Clarke's, stopping his squire from escalating the tension in the room even higher, and Roan sneered,

"Is this your bodyguard, Clarke?"

"A friend who's looking out for me."

Roan huffed a laugh, "Seems to me he wants to be more than your friend."

Clarke would have simply rolled her eyes at Roan's juvenile taunting if Bellamy hadn't taken the bait and was already partway into drawing his blade, the steel ringing out in warning. All at once Lexa's people tensed, Abigail flinched, Octavia and Raven cried out in unison, "Bell!" and Lincoln put his hand on the other man's arm before Ser Marcus could step in; miraculously Bellamy did not shrug him off.

"Enough!" Lexa snapped, her eyes blazing, "From the way Clarke talked about you, I had expected better of you, _my Lord_." She seethed at Roan, and Clarke suppressed the urge to tell her that she was doing nothing to diffuse the situation.

"I should have my men seize you and deliver you straight to the King." Roan growled back.

"They can try."

"Roan, please!" Lady Abigail attempted to step past Ser Marcus' protective stance, glaring at him when he caught her about the waist instead with a pleading whisper of her name. "Just listen?"

His eyes flickered over them all before landing on Lexa and for a moment the two of them stared each other down. She looked every inch a queen, Clarke thought, beautiful and fierce, her spirit seeming to glow from within as the firelight flickered over her skin and caught the golden strands in her long, brown hair. She didn't need jewels or weapons to rule; Clarke understood now that she inspired loyalty just by being herself. She looked at her, took in her keen, emerald eyes, her delicate features and high cheekbones, her full lips... Clarke's heart seemed to flutter in her chest, she felt a stab of heat coiling low in her belly, and she barely held in a breathless gasp.

She only managed to breathe again, though her head was still reeling, when Roan sighed,

"Why are you here?"

"To reclaim the iron throne, as is my birthright."

"Your birthright." Roan repeated flatly.

"As Titus Trigeda's only living child."

"Westeros has never had a female ruler."

"There is a first time for everything, my Lord."

Roan smiled, "It isn't something I would personally object to, _your Grace_ ," His mockery of the title could not be missed, "Though many would. Would you slaughter those who opposed you as your father did?"

Clarke felt a ridiculous flicker of pride when Lexa did not give him the satisfaction of reacting to the insult to her father's name, "I'm well aware that I will have to earn the kingdom's respect, my Lord. Dorne will follow me to war, we were hoping that you would too."

" _We_..." Roan met Clarke's gaze, where she stood resolutely at Lexa's side. "Why would I do that? And more to the point, why are you, Clarke? Abigail?" He turned to where her mother stood, holding - subconsciously or not - on to Ser Marcus' arm where it was still wrapped loosely around her middle. "Jacob served the King faithfully for years, Clarke is betrothed to the crown prince, is she not?"

Glancing at Lexa, Clarke was sure she did not imagine the way her lips firmed into a thin line and she swallowed, as if she had just tasted something bitter; deep down she had never wished more fervently that it wasn't so... Though surely she could not be still?

"I can't imagine that engagement still stands," She said, wryly, but Roan had already narrowed his gaze at the knight standing at Abigail's side.

" _You_... Aren't you the Lord Commander of Jaha's Kingsguard?" Ser Marcus shifted awkwardly on the spot, and Clarke watched her mother, in an interesting role reversal, place herself protectively in front of him. It should have been laughable, that such a small woman could stand between Ser Marcus and danger, but the challenge on her face said Abigail would fight tooth and nail for him. "You expect me to believe that Ser Marcus Kane, the King's loyal protector, has turned traitor along with the rest of you and together you're going to incite a rebellion?"

Roan's body language screamed to Clarke that he was on the defensive; when he was younger she remembered he used to lash out when he was confused or wrong-footed.

"The King _murdered_ my father!" She blurted out, anger and desperation overriding any sense of caution, and everything seemed to stand still in the wake of her accusation.

For the first time since they'd arrived, Roan was stunned into silence. Then the doors burst open. Clarke wasn't the only one who jumped, and Bellamy was not the only person to draw his sword this time, as everyone turned to face the intruder. Clarke's heart was racing as images of the the King's men rushing in to arrest them all played in her mind's eye, before her actual eyes took in the lone woman, tall and beautiful, coated in furs and with a long bow and quiver of arrows slung over her back. In her hand she held her own sword aloft, the steel glinting in the firelight. She looked familiar.

"Everyone lower your weapons!" Roan bellowed, his expression thunderous but directed at the woman, who cocked her head disbelievingly,

"Ontari informed me that you were in here without a guard and outnumbered by two dozen foreigners. I told her you wouldn't be so stupid yet here you are."

"I am not in danger, Echo. You, on the other hand, might be for interrupting."

_Echo_... Clarke's memories of Roan's sister were more hazy; she had not been interested in socialising whenever Clarke had visited the Ice Fort, and, as a child, she'd been almost as intimidating as her mother; maintaining a stony silence yet watching everyone and everything with sharp, keen eyes. Now she looked, if possible, even more cunningly dangerous.

"And what exactly am I interrupting?" She asked, sheathing her own sword when no more were directed at her.

"You remember Lady Griffin, Lady Clarke?" Roan gestured to them, "My sister, Echo."

"The almost-Lady of the Ice Fort? How could I forget." Echo smirked and inclined her head towards Clarke, "And how is the Royal keep, my lady?"

"I wish I'd never set foot in there." Clarke answered gravely, and watched with some satisfaction as Echo's eyes narrowed and she frowned in confusion. She turned back to her brother,

"What -?"

"Echo, shut the damn door and listen!" Roan ordered, and she must have read the seriousness in his tone because Echo gritted her teeth and obeyed without question. "Start from the beginning," Roan said to Clarke, but now she hesitated, wary of his sister but balking at the thought of questioning Echo's loyalty out loud. Perhaps Roan was used to it, or he just knew Clarke well enough to ken what was worrying her, because he sighed, "She is my blood. You can trust her as much as you can trust me. Do we trust each other, Clarke?"

Clarke didn't trust Echo, of that she was certain, but knew that this was a risk they needed to take; they needed Roan's support, and the strength of the northern armies, to have any chance in defeating the King on the battlefield. Still, she looked to Lexa, waiting for her go-ahead, which she received in the barest of nods and the unwavering faith in her gaze.

"Alright," Clarke said, and began the tale.

It sounded both absurd and horrific to hear it all laid out, and Clarke knew that she would most certainly be skeptical had she not lived through it. She, her mother, and Lexa all took turns in talking, filling in the gaps in each other's experiences, and for the most part Roan and Echo were silent, their expressions intent. Everyone had migrated to sit at the long tables that ran down the length of the room, no longer convinced, at least, that they would be attacked as soon as they dropped their guard. They were still segregated into groups though.

Indra remained, as ever, at Lexa's side, Anya too, along with most of their people. Interestingly Lincoln, and a few of the men who had spent the last two weeks sparring with their new Westerosi friends, sat with Octavia, Bellamy and Raven, and it made Clarke feel a tiny flare of hope, that progress had been made amongst their ranks. Ser Marcus sat straddling the bench with Abigail close, occupying the space between his legs. Clarke had not noticed any words exchanged between them since they had been interrupted at the edge of the woods earlier, but they seemed to have called an unspoken truce for the time being, presenting a united front. Ser Marcus seemed agitated though, or nervous, as he listened to their story, his jaw clenching and his leg bouncing restlessly until Abigail put a hand on his knee. Clarke realised why only when Roan, perched on the table, spoke for what felt like the first time anyone had in hours.

"I'm willing to believe you. You know I have no love for Jaha, and for what it's worth, your Grace," Here he spoke to Lexa, without a trace of irony this time, "I have always thought he took the throne from your father in a cowardly and underhanded way." He turned back to Clarke, "I can believe he had Jacob killed, and I want vengeance for it. I can believe, even, in this red priestess who has driven him to believe he is some kind of God. That he is sacrificing people like..." It was hard, Clarke knew, to find the words for something so awful. "I can believe in wanting to dethrone a tyrant and build a better future for this country... that is what our fathers  
believed they were doing when they made Jaha our King." Then he rounded on Ser Marcus, pointing a damning finger, "What I cannot believe is that the Lord Commander knew nothing of any of it!"

Ser Marcus froze, barely seeming to breathe, and his wide startled eyes spoke of guilt to Clarke. Her mother, by comparison, bristled,

"He had nothing to do with it, Roan! He saved me from the black cells and almost certain execution. He knew _something_ was deeply wrong and he left everything behind for Clarke and I! For Bellamy and Octavia, whom he loves as though they're his own!"

"Oath breaker," Roan sneered, "Have you nothing to say in your own defence?"

Ser Marcus flinched at the epithet, but rose to his feet, squeezing Abigail's hand reassuringly in his own, and faced the other man as though ready to expose himself completely to his judgement.

"You're right," He said honestly, quietly, "I broke my vows. I turned my cloak when I swore to obey and protect the King above all others. And I did it because those very vows blinded me to the truth that I should have seen much sooner. I turned a blind eye; I told myself that I should live in ignorance in order to do my duty. And my friend died in agony because I did nothing."

Clarke went cold all over; the conflicted tangle of emotions that hit her threatened to overwhelm her as she stared at Ser Marcus as though he were a stranger. Her mother was looking up at him with sorrow and sympathy in her eyes, her hand still in his, as though what he had said was nothing new to her. Clarke had thought him a true knight: a man who protected the innocent and did what was _right_ , but he had let this evil grow right under his nose. He could have _saved_ her father... And now he had designs on her mother? But the remorse and misery on his face was so apparent, so obvious, that the part of Clarke that remembered she had gotten to know this man over the past two years could see he was trying so hard to make amends for his crimes.

Awaiting Roan's verdict, no one expected Octavia to suddenly rise from her seat and approach Ser Marcus.

"You would have saved him if you could," She said softly, reaching out to him, "If you'd known."

Ser Marcus smiled sadly, and tucked her long dark hair behind her ear, "But I could have, wildfire. I should have."

"You swore a lifelong vow," She said, "To someone who raised you up from nothing. I know how that feels, to owe someone..."

"You don't owe me anything, Octavia. Nor does Bellamy." He looked towards her brother, who was staring at them both, his face tight with emotion.

"Fine, I don't owe you my loyalty then, but you have it anyway!" She declared, "Because, unlike Jaha, I _know_ you're a good man. And you're _trying_."

And at this she wound her arms around his middle, squeezing him until he returned the embrace, a hand stroking over her head where it was tucked under his bearded chin. Clarke saw him screw his eyes shut, clearly fighting tears, and felt a lump form in her throat; she missed her own father so much it felt as though the pain would never end. She looked towards her mother instead then, suddenly struck with such gratitude that she was still here with her and she had not lost her too.

That was due to Ser Marcus saving her, fighting for her even when the odds were impossible. Abigail was watching them - watching _him_ \- with such aching tenderness that Clarke knew for certain then that she was already in love. All the evidence suggested he felt the same, but Clarke still began to pray that he would not break her mother's heart. Not when she was still recovering from it breaking with Jacob's loss. Clarke wondered how many pieces of herself Lady Abigail Griffin could lose before there was nothing left.

Bellamy rose and joined his sister and mentor, and he and Ser Marcus grasped each other by the forearm, sharing a look that spoke volumes but was indecipherable to anyone but them; their own silent exchange that needed no words.

"If you're all quite done..." Echo broke in, voice dripping with distain.

"I don't trust you, Kane," Roan said, folding muscular arms, "But I'm willing to let you earn it."

He said it as though he were bestowing a gift and Ser Marcus looked as though he was repressing the urge to thank him sarcastically. Instead he just stiffly inclined his head whilst, unbeknownst to him, Octavia shot Roan a deeply unimpressed look from where she was still tucked under Ser Marcus' arm. Luckily Roan either paid her no mind or missed it entirely as he steered the conversation back to political negotiations.

"You're willing to grant us northern independence, is that right?" He asked Lexa, "The north will be separate from the rest of the kingdoms under the rule of the crown?"

"Yes," She affirmed, "Pledge your support and the armies of the north to me and I will grant you that when I am Queen."

Roan made a humming noise of consideration and paced a little, slowly, running his fingers over his short beard; it made Clarke nervous.

"The King in the north..." He muttered seemingly to himself, then shook his head and looked back at Lexa, "How about a different... proposal?" His lips curled slightly in amusement and Clarke should have known what he was about to say, but was blindsided by it nonetheless: "How about we seal this alliance of House Azgeda, Wardens of the North, with House Trigeda, by marriage?"

The silence that followed was deafening, as though everyone in the room was holding their breath. Clarke knew her shock and incredulity was clear on her face as she looked back and forth between Roan and Lexa, waiting for _someone_ to laugh or dismiss it all as folly. But they just stared at each other: Roan in smug challenge, Lexa with a wary frown, trying to deduce his intentions.

Roan seemed to anticipate her argument before she could speak, "I do not wish to rule in your stead, or take the throne from you, but at your side." He told her, standing before her now, his whole demeanour becoming earnest, "Let us unite the kingdoms rather than separate them."

From a political viewpoint it made perfect sense, Clarke knew, and they should not have been so confident in their plan so as to think Roan would not make any demands of his own. It would be Lexa's preference to keep all seven kingdoms under her rule... Personally however, it felt as though Clarke's stomach had filled with lead the moment the word "marriage" had fallen from his lips. Something deep inside her railed against Lexa marrying Roan (or _anybody_ , her mind whispered, twisting her confused emotions into an even tighter knot.) Clarke knew what was happening; she was not so blind to her own feelings, nor able to sufficiently ignore them, that she could deny it to herself. She was far too self aware for that, and besides, it wasn't as though it was the first time this had happened...

"Well played, my Lord," Lexa conceded, and Clarke caught the traces of respect in her tone and expression. "There is much to think about."

"You are all invited to stay here whilst you do your thinking," The Lord of the Ice Fort said, "Your travels have been long, and I have no doubt that Lady Abigail, in the very least, would appreciate sleeping in a real bed."

His gentle teasing provoked Clarke's mother into smiling where she had been radiating tension since Roan's confrontation with Ser Marcus, "You are not wrong."

"You could do to bathe as well, I'm sure," Roan said playfully to Clarke, who did not respond as favourably as her mother, and he frowned, caught off guard by her stony silence where, no doubt, he'd thought she'd be pleased. "And a hot meal!" He announced to the room at large, which gained him a more positive response when practically everyone's heads perked up at the mention of food. "You shall have the protection of guest right; no one will harm you whilst you are under my roof. My household staff will show you to the guest quarters and I recommend you all take advantage of the baths in the lower levels. We have natural hot springs all over the grounds. Lady Abigail?" Roan offered her his arm, "Perhaps you'd do me the pleasure of your company for a while?"

Clarke watched her mother cross easily to his side, much to the obvious displeasure of Ser Marcus, and murmur a soft, "Thank you," and whilst Roan gestured for them all to follow and opened the doors of the great hall to his guard and servants once more, dispelling the air of secrecy, Echo drew up beside Clarke.

"Tell me this is not a terrible idea," She sighed. Clarke, uncertainty gnawing at her gut and uncomfortable with being of the same mind as Roan's sister, could only reply resignedly,

"I wish I could.


	14. Marcus V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now beautiful artwork of a scene from chapter 5 by my lovely, talented friend Blizzaurus. You can find it here:
> 
> https://twitter.com/100blizzaurus/status/980161920874569728?s=09
> 
> And you should all check out her fic too, if you haven't already!

Begrudging though he was to take any kind of advice from Lord Roan, Marcus could not deny that he was right about the hot springs. The baths, located underground in the depths of the Ice Fort, were spacious, heated pools that cleansed and relaxed him as soon as he sank beneath the surface with an appreciative sigh. He was glad that he had ventured down here with Bellamy and Lincoln, once Octavia and Raven had returned from bathing themselves, clean and warm, with their moods tremendously improved, extolling the virtues of the baths. The hot water seeped into Marcus' skin and eased the ache of tired muscles, finally dispelling the chill he'd felt constantly since they'd sailed into northern seas. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, letting the water flow through his hair, washing away the salt and grit from the sea and the road, and breathed in the steam that was floating from the surface and curling in the air. Bellamy and Lincoln's echoing voices faded into the background and Marcus tried to let his mind go blank.

This was it, he decided, he was going to live here now.

He couldn't let himself worry over Roan's judgement; he had confessed as much as he was able - omitting the conversation he'd had with Jacob before he died out of cowardice, he knew, but Abigail had not divulged it either - and now, as long as the Lord of the Ice Fort did not have him killed, Marcus cared very little of what he thought of him. He'd have to get used to people calling him oath breaker. He could only hope Lady Clarke might forgive him in time.

She'd pulled him aside as Roan had taken his leave, Abigail in tow, much to Marcus' consternation, and looked at up him with eyes that spoke of her anger and disappointment in him.

"I was devastated by what you told us," Clarke said, with brutal honesty, in a way that broke his heart a little, "I can't pretend otherwise. I had thought that you were a man who could not ignore the things that you say you did -"

"Clarke -" Marcus tried beseechingly, but she continued as though she hadn't heard him.

"But I know Octavia is right too: you're trying. I can't forgive you yet, because I would've given anything to be in your position, to have the chance to save my father..."

 _And you don't even know the whole truth,_ Marcus thought, guilt clawing at his insides. Abigail clearly thought it best that she didn't know, and she was Clarke's mother, if anyone knew what was best for her child, it was her... And perhaps this was Abigail's way of letting him know, without words, that she, at least, was absolving him of his sins against her family.

"My lady, I know sorry could never be enough -"

"It's a start," Clarke said, and she sighed, her shoulders slumping. Marcus was hit by a wave of sadness, that so much responsibility had been suddenly heaped upon her; she was still so young.

He knew then - if he hadn't as good as sworn it to Abigail already - that he would fight to protect what little innocence she had left. "I know I can't stop whatever is happening between you and my mother," She said, sounding uncomfortable to even be discussing it with him, and forged ahead before he could think to respond, "She clearly loves you, and I wouldn't want to stand in the way of her happiness."

Marcus found it hard to concentrate - hard to _breathe_ \- beyond Clarke's assertion that Abigail loved him; he recalled his first tournament melee, when he was barely a man, and being hit over the head with a morning-star. The clash against his helmet had rung in his ears and his head had spun dizzyingly so that it was miracle he'd managed to stay on his feet. It was very much akin to how he felt now. Hearing it from someone else, even though the words had not been spoken between him and Abigail, made it all the more real, and all the more impossible to deny.

"Is - Is that what she said? Your mother, I mean?" He managed to stutter out.

"She didn't have to," Clarke frowned, "It's obvious... Look, I wouldn't have thought it possible of you before, but if you're trying to seduce her for our money, or -"

"No!" Marcus cried out, flinching as Clarke unknowingly cut to the heart of the matter, "Gods, no! Clarke, I... That's the problem."

"What do you mean?" Her voice was still hard as she watched him struggle to find the words; her gaze was piercing, just like her mother's, but merciless.

"I don't want to drag her down with me!" It burst out as the despair he'd been feeling since his senses returned aboard Lexa's ship welled up uncontrollably, "I come from nothing, Clarke, I have nothing now that I've betrayed my King. I'm not the Lord Commander, I'm probably not even a knight anymore..."

How to explain to her that his duty used to sit at the core of his being, defined him as a person, and now he was directionless but for... _Abby, Abby, Abby_... His heart now beat to the sound of her name falling from his lips, to the gentle touch of her hands on his skin, to the taste of her kiss...

But he could never be worthy of her.

Clarke's face had softened in realisation, "You're in love with her," She murmured.

Marcus' lips quirked into a humourless smile; a doomed man accepting his fate, "Fatally, I fear."

"And you're trying to do the honourable thing." This said with a kind of affectionate impatience, "Ser Marcus, I cannot speak for my mother, you need to talk to her. You owe her an explanation. But we are all enemies of the crown now." She touched his arm lightly, "And we're all fighting for something."

She glanced over to where Lexa and Indra were waiting on her and now that Marcus looked back on it, she seemed sad. He wished he'd had the presence of mind to ask her if she was alright, but conflicting emotions were at war within him; his head versus his heart.

"Clarke... it's not as simple -"

"It can be," She implored, "Talk to her."

She left him then with a small smile and a brief squeeze of his arm, and now Marcus was buying himself time by hiding in the baths and telling himself that Clarke Griffin was still young and idealistic, when he knew very well that she was perhaps the most pragmatic young lady he'd ever known.

If he was honest with himself, he'd always felt like a pretender amongst the King's court. Surrounded by the highborn who looked down on him as a commoner who did not belong; sometimes he knew it was all in his head, sometimes the looks of scorn and derision had been very real. Abigail would never look at him like that, of course, but, if by some miracle they all lived through this, if Lexa won the throne, he did not want _her_ to be subjected to the same contempt just for being associated with him, let alone...

The thought of marrying her seemed like a distant, foolish dream now. Especially given that he would be a known oath breaker, no matter who won the war to come. Not giving Abigail the choice, however, was just as disrespectful. Much as Marcus wanted to protect her from the fate of being tarred with the same brush as him, the _last_ thing he wanted was to hurt her. Selfishly, all he wanted was for them to be together, and seven damn anyone or anything that might stand between them. He could not take the decision away from her when they  
were in this thing together.

Idly he wished that he did not have to leave the warmth and comfort of the baths in order to seek her out and have this conversation, but then his mind assaulted him with the image of Abby, naked and wet and wanting him, all flushed, pink skin with a wicked, tempting smile on those lips he _ached_ to kiss again... _Gods!_ Marcus barely stopped himself from groaning aloud; he could feel himself beginning to harden beneath the surface of the water and quickly shut down that avenue of thought, painfully aware that he was not alone.

"Her Grace will meet his terms," He distantly heard Lincoln saying, "She cannot afford not to. We can't take King's Landing with only the fighting force of Dorne on our side."

"I don't trust him," Bellamy muttered.

"Not like you to disagree with Clarke." Marcus could hear the slight teasing lilt to Lincoln's words, something he might not have picked up on a week ago.

"She's relying purely on a childhood friendship -"

"Lady Abigail isn't, though."

Focusing on their conversation helped calm the stirring he'd felt in his blood, reduced his need for Abby to the ever-present, tempered thrum of desire that lived beneath his skin now. Nevertheless, his heart ached to see her and put things right between them. Regretfully, he climbed out of the pool, shuddering when the cooler air hit his skin, and quickly dried himself.

"Take your time," He said to the other two men, who had paused in their discussion to look at him questioningly as he dressed, "I have something I need to attend to before I retire for the night."

Distracted as he was, he missed the knowing look exchanged between them and Bellamy's quiet, amused, "I'm sure you do," as he left the bathing chamber.

Transversing the unfamiliar corridors of the Ice Fort, however, was not an easy task, and Marcus lost count of how many suspicious glances he received from Lord Roan's household - not to mention the raised eyebrows of the guards he ended up asking for directions to a lady's bedchamber so late in the evening - before he found himself in the right part of the keep. By which point he was cold again, despite the hot water from the springs running through a pipe system in the walls and keeping the castle warmer than most in the north, and wishing he'd put on more than just breeches, his boots, and a linen tunic. Rubbing his arms briskly did little to ward off  
the chill and he glanced out a nearby window at the gathering darkness. Marcus was on the verge of taking the coward's way out and telling himself it would be better to talk to Abigail in the morning, when he rounded a corner and practically collided into the lady in question.

She was carrying an oil lamp that would have fallen and probably splashed them in hot oil when it hit the ground, were it not for Marcus catching it with one hand and reflexively pulling Abigail against him about the waist with the other.

"Marcus!" She exclaimed, a little breathlessly, as she steadied herself by placing her hands upon his shoulders, looking up at him with an apprehensive smile.

"Abigail," He breathed in return, his voice ridiculously husky to his own ears, "I'm sorry."

He realised that she was wearing only a long white nightgown, her feet bare, with her hair falling in loose honey waves about her shoulders, and felt a sharp stab of desire at the feeling of her breasts crushed against his own chest, the curves of her slight form in his arms, and the warmth of her radiating through the thin fabric. Marcus released her hurriedly, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat and wondering if she could hear his heart thundering against his ribcage; she looked disappointed.

"You'll catch a cold," He murmured, glancing pointedly down to her lack of footwear, and she smiled, amused, taking the lamp back from him.

"I'm used to the cold, Marcus, I'm more concerned about you." She reached out and ineffectually rubbed his arm a little, and when he realised he was shivering he wasn't sure if it was due to the cold or her touch. "Your southern blood isn't coping well. Why are you wandering around out here?"

"I..." He drew a deep, steadying breath, "I was coming to see you."

"At this hour?" She quirked a suggestive eyebrow, lips pursed in a playful smile that had him yearning to kiss them again.

"I - no, that's not - I mean -" Flustered and not wanting her to think his intentions inappropriate, even though she was watching him with amused affection and not the slightest bit offended, he tried to gather some semblance of composure. "I wanted to talk to you, to explain why I've been -"

"An ass?" She offered bluntly.

A huff of laughter escaped him as she reminded him exactly why he adored her, "Yes. That. But you're right, it's late -"

"Marcus," She stopped him from making excuses, "I was coming to find you too. Come in?" She held out a hand to him and, at his hesitance, rolled her eyes, "Let them talk, if they have nothing better to do."

So Marcus took her hand, feeling a sense of rightness flood through him as she interlaced their fingers and tugged him gently within the room she'd been given. Immediately he was hit with the warmth of the still blazing hearth, the only light source in the room other than Abby's lamp, which she placed on a bedside table then perched on the quilted, plush looking duvet covering a large, luxurious four poster bed.

"Roan wasn't kidding about the bed," She smiled up at him, devastatingly lovely in the firelight, "Will you sit with me?"

He hated how unsure she was around him, knowing that it was entirely his fault, and, despite thinking that keeping his distance might help him maintain a clear head, crossed the short distance between them to settle next to her. The bed was soft and welcoming, and immediately he imagined sinking back onto it and drawing Abby down with him... He gave himself an internal shake; her warm, brown eyes were soft, her face open and unguarded, as she twined their hands together again.

"Talk to me," She implored gently, "I've tortured myself with anger and self doubt," At this he felt renewed shame and guilt rise like bile in his throat, "But I told myself that I could not have read you so completely wrong. Not after you said... you _swore_ ," Her voice broke and, Gods, he could not bear that he had caused her such uncertainty and pain. One of his hands left hers, where they were tangled together, and cupped her cheek, his thumb wiping away imaginary tears.

"I meant every word," He said, desperate to assuage her fears, "I feel so much, so deeply, for you, Abigail, that it scares me."

She was nodding, her eyes shining, "I know. It's... it's overwhelming."

"When I'm with you, I forget about the rest of the world," Marcus said, still stroking her face, "But then I remember... I'm not a Lord. I'm probably not even a knight anymore. I have nothing to offer you, Abigail, I _am_ nothing."

"Don't you dare say that!" She pulled back so that his hand fell away and glared at him furiously,

"You are good and brave and honourable -"

"And an oath breaker. A penniless hedge knight."

"Do you think I care about those things?" Abigail rose to her feet and paced away from him, agitated, then turned back. "I'm a traitor to the crown. We all are. If you've been stripped of your knighthood then my land and title will also mean nothing. Marcus," She returned to him then, standing before him, between his legs, and taking his face in her hands, "We are equals in every way that matters to me, but also in the eyes of the law. And when we win this war we get to decide who we want to be. Together."

"Abigail... Abby, I -" He wanted to believe her words so badly that his arguments that he'd thought so well reasoned died on his tongue; she was so close, her fingers scratching lightly through his beard, sending entirely different shivers racing through him, leaning down so that her hair fell in a soft, silky curtain around them.

She touched her forehead to his and Marcus released a shaky breath that she then breathed in. His hands had found their way to her waist of their own accord.

"I don't care what they'll say," She whispered, the tip of her nose running along the side of his, and Marcus had to close his eyes as every other of his senses was overwhelmed with her. He felt as though he was burning with need, trembling with the effort of holding back. "If other people don't see your worth then I don't care to know them." She drew back just far enough to look at him, curling her hands into his hair, forcing him to meet her fiery gaze; the love in her eyes took his breath away. "I married out of duty once," She said, "I was lucky; Jacob was kind and an easy man to love. But it was not my choice. This time... I _choose_ you."

And then she kissed him, and it was different from any other kiss they'd shared before.

Abby kissed him like she was trying to devour him, her lips moving over his with a fervour he'd never known, and Marcus was helpless under the onslaught, could only try to match her intensity as that fire inside him ignited into a blaze once more. He opened up to her and groaned when her tongue darted into his mouth, stroking his, and, pushing him further onto the bed, she climbed into his lap.

His arms immediately wound tight around her, pressing her close and arching up against her at the same time, his body running on instinct whilst his mind struggled to catch up. For a while Marcus didn't think and lost himself in the taste and feel of Abby, her hands in his hair, the hot, panted breaths between them when the need to breathe became too great, the heat between her legs as she ground herself against his growing hardness, and the quiet gasps and mewls of pleasure escaping her, driving him wilder still.

When he moved his mouth down her neck - her head falling back eagerly to allow him better access - leaving a trail of wet, sucking kisses and tiny nips that had her hips jerking, she moaned his name,

"Marcus, _yes_ ,"

His hand fell to her thigh, dragging up the light fabric of her nightgown until he felt soft, warm skin... then he froze as his mind finally realised the magnitude of what they were doing, and the consequences.

"Marcus?" Abby had felt him tense, and he raised his head to look at her; the sight of her kiss swollen lips, flushed cheeks and heavy lidded eyes, dark with desire, nearly undid him all over again.

"Gods, I want you," He said hoarsely, hands skimming up her sides, drawn to her peaked nipples standing out beneath her nightdress. His mouth watered at the sight and he brushed his thumbs over them. Abby arched into his touch, inhaling sharply,

"You have me."

He could make love to her tonight, ( _fuck_ her, whispered something primal, surging in his blood) bury himself inside her until it was impossible to tell where he ended and she began. Marcus had been with women, before he became Kingsguard, though he would not call himself experienced. Probably not what Abigail deserved...

No, the highborn looked upon these things differently to the common folk, especially for a woman. It wouldn't be proper for him to bed Abby without first marrying her.

She was nuzzling just beneath his jaw now, raining soft butterfly kisses down his neck.

"Abby, I - I wouldn't want to dishonour you," He managed weakly, and she stopped to give him a quizzical look, "I want to do this properly."

Understanding dawned on her, "Oh..." She slipped backwards off his lap and onto her feet, stepping out of reach, and immediately Marcus hated himself for opening his mouth; the loss of her was unbearable, his body cried out for hers. Then suddenly her lips curled in barely suppressed amusement, a wicked gleam in her eyes, "You don't want to... _besmirch_ my virtue, you mean?" She teased, then, before he could comprehend her intentions, she was pulling her nightgown over her head and standing naked, glorious and unashamed, before him.

Marcus was fairly sure his heart stopped. For a moment, at least.

He was sure he was gaping like fool as his eyes raked over her hungrily, reverently, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. The orange firelight flickered over miles of smooth, pale skin, perfect in its imperfections that only entranced him more, his fingers itching to trace, to explore and discover. He wanted to touch and taste her everywhere and had no idea where to begin; from the hollows of her collarbones, to the soft, small swells of her breasts, with dusky, puckered nipples, down her slim, toned legs to the dark curls nestled in between.

Abby continued then, as though she hadn't just broken him open and exposed the heart that already belonged to her, as though she hadn't reduced him to a panting, trembling mess, wanting her more than he ever thought he was capable of wanting _anything_.

"Ser, I was married for a long time, I'm no innocent maiden." She stalked back towards him and pushed him down so that he was lying on the bed, and crawled over him, predatory, "I'd be more worried about your own virtue, if I were you."

Marcus surged upwards to kiss her at that, wild and wanton, unable to stop himself from touching her any longer, and he felt Abby first smile in triumph, then whimper into his mouth as he ran his hands over her. He skimmed the smooth planes of her back, her shoulder blades, down to the dip of her waist, then lightly over her ribs as she squirmed a little - _ticklish_ \- until he palmed one perfect breast in one hand and slid the other back down to cup the flesh of her behind. He tweaked her nipple as he tugged her against him, bucking his hips into hers, and they both moaned at the sweet friction, breaking the kiss and grinding together in hopeless abandon for a moment.

Marcus could _feel_ the heat of her core as Abby sat up and rocked herself against his achingly hard length, still confined in his breeches. And when she curled her hands into the hem of his tunic, pushing it up his torso and shuffling down his body to plant hot, open-mouthed kisses against his stomach, as he looked down at her he could see the wet spot over the bulge of his erection where her arousal had soaked into his trousers.

" _Fuck_ ," He panted, before he could think better of it, but Abby just let out a pleased hum at his vulgarity as she moved further up his chest, mapping out each new inch of exposed skin with hands and mouth. She swirled her tongue around his nipple and the jolt of pleasure had him cursing again; no one had ever done that to him before.

In fact, no woman had ever taken their time to learn him as Abby was doing, like he was as much a revelation to her as she was to him. Like she was taking pleasure and delight in simply unveiling and unraveling him... _savouring_ him.

Marcus had no such patience; that could wait for the many, _many_ more times he planned on doing this with Abigail Griffin. He wanted to feast on her, and, as soon as she'd divested him of his shirt and exposed him to her appreciative gaze, he sat up and wrapped his arms around her, bringing her bare skin flush against his and her breasts level with his mouth. Her fingers threaded into the thick curls of his hair as he ravished her chest with lips, tongue and teeth, sucking and laving at her nipples until her hitching gasps became soft little cries.

She was moving against him again, slight undulations of her hips borne of an instinctual need that had Marcus suddenly grasping her thigh and flipping them so that, with a startled gasp, Abby lay spread beneath him, beautiful and golden and gazing up at him with dark eyes and a slightly dazed smile. He couldn't stop himself from thrusting, chasing that wet heat that was so tantalisingly close, the pressure and friction _so good_ but no longer enough.

"Oh!" Abby's hands clutched at his shoulders and she was struggling to keep her eyes open; he noticed she was trembling.

"Are you -?"

"So close," She breathed, hooking a leg around him and pulling him down again as her hips rose to meet his, "Don't you dare stop."

He could only obey, rutting against her, focusing all his willpower on not spending himself inside his smalls, even as molten heat spread from where the iron length of his cock rubbed against her slick folds, through the rough material of his breeches. He kept moving, knowing he must be grinding perfectly against that sensitive little bud that was swollen and throbbing, until Abby was shuddering and jerking in his arms and sobbing his name.

Watching her, overcome with awe and love, Marcus felt his chest tighten and tears prick behind his eyes; the image of Abby naked beneath him, a rosy flush blooming over her skin, head thrown back, lost to her pleasure - pleasure _he_ had given her - would be forever seared into his memory.

As would the moment she opened her eyes again, heavy lidded and glazed, and smiled beatifically at him, like he was everything, like he was her world, just as she was his.

"Marcus..." She brought a hand up to stroke his cheek and he turned his head to press a reverent kiss to her inner wrist. He heard her breath hitch and looked down to see a tear escape the corner of her eye. She pulled him into a slow, deep kiss before he could question it, and as his tongue lazily stroked hers, Marcus assumed that she was just feeling as overwhelmed as he. It felt as though his emotions were barely contained, bubbling just below the surface.

Suddenly he felt small, deft hands slip between their bodies and start to undo the laces of his breeches,

"Clothes," She murmured distractedly against his mouth, and Marcus shifted to try and toe his boots off without leaving the cradle of her thighs. He felt faintly absurd that he'd brought her to (what seemed like) a fairly glorious climax and yet he was still wearing them.

Together, after some creative shuffling, and giggling between kisses, they managed to rid him of what remained of his clothes, and they both sighed in satisfaction and relief when he sank back down against her with no more barriers remaining. Marcus couldn't hold back the groan that rumbled through him as his cock slipped between the folds of her sex - Gods, she felt so wet, _so good_ \- felt himself pulsing with need, and he knew that he would not last long.

"Abby," He said roughly, "I can't... It's been a while." An understatement, he thought, having been in the Kingsguard for five years, and it had _been_ _a while_ before even that.

She smiled, "For me too, remember."

 _Of course_ , "Right..." He gave a nervous huff of laughter.

"Just... go slow," She soothed, stroking a curl of hair back from his forehead, "For both of us."

He was struck once more by this woman's infinite kindness and patience, at how well she understood him, how her soul seemed to speak to his, and could not go a moment longer without telling her,

Ducking his head, he whispered, "I love you, Abigail," against her lips before kissing her again, fiercely, pouring the depths of his feelings into every caress, until she broke away gasping, cupping his face in her hands and directing him firmly to meet her gaze.

"I love you too, Marcus Kane. I _love_ you, and I need you. Now."

She raised her hips and pressed an insistent heel into the small of his back so he could not mistake her meaning, and, reeling from the knowledge of what had been spoken and affirmed between them, Marcus breathed deeply as Abby took him in hand and guided him home. He slowly pressed inside her, eyes falling shut and shivering at the exquisite sensation of the heat of her cunt enveloping his length. He withdrew, then rocked in a little further, letting her get used to the feeling of him filling her, and opened his eyes to watch her face for any signs of discomfort. Abby met his gaze and nodded, only desire and love in her expression, and she held onto his shoulders as, with his next slow thrust, he slid inside completely, hips flush with hers.

She let out a moan in harmony with his and they stilled, each soaking in the moment and each other.

"Alright?" Marcus murmured, fighting the urge to _take_ , to fuck her hard and unrestrained, instead trailing shaking fingers over her forehead, her cheek, until Abby took his hand and kissed his palm.

"I love you," She repeated, and laced their fingers together beside her head.

Something inside him broke open, feeling the words sink down to his very bones, tying his heart to hers. It was acceptance and adoration and _encouragement_... so when Marcus began to move, he did not hold back. He drove into her hard and deep, losing himself in the softness of her skin, her gasps that were increasingly turning into throaty moans, her eyes that held him captive and seemed to pierce his soul... and her tight, wet heat squeezing his cock with each powerful thrust and setting him on fire from within.

He seemed to hit somewhere _just right_ inside her when Abby cried out, "Yes!" and arched up into him, her hips working in rhythm with his now, chasing that feeling. The knowledge that it felt good for her too drove Marcus higher towards that peak, that release his body was screaming for.

But he couldn't -

"Oh Gods -!" The realisation struck him even as the pleasure was cresting within him, and with the last shred of control he had left, Marcus pulled out of her and Abby whimpered at the loss.

"Marcus, wh - _oh!"_

His red, glistening cock slipped between her folds and bumped against where she was most sensitive, and Marcus rocked against her once, twice... Then pleasure crashed through him like lightning, white hot and blinding, and his cock jerked and spilled over Abby's stomach as she continued to writhe beneath him.

Through the waves of bliss suffusing his body and the haze clouding his mind, Marcus felt her tense then shudder, her arms and legs gripping him tightly to her as she rode out her own climax.

Marcus panted into her neck and whispered her name breathlessly, over and over again like a prayer, interspersed with, "I'm sorry," and kisses pressed into her skin, her hair.

There could not be a babe; they couldn't risk it, not when they were on the brink of war, and Marcus berated himself for not considering it before. But Abby was carding her fingers through his hair and kissing his sweaty forehead as they both came down from the high of their lovemaking, shushing his apologies and murmuring,

"It's alright. I know."

When they'd eventually caught their breath, Marcus shifted his weight off of her, though she seemed reluctant to let him go, and grabbed his breeches from where they were strewn at the foot of the bed. He used them to clean them both, wondering if there might be any spare in the large oak wardrobe across the room. Deciding he'd worry about it in the morning, he drew the quilts and furs over them both before Abby immediately pulled him back into her arms. He circled his own around her waist and rested his head on her breast, listening to the reassuring thump of her heartbeat. He wanted to go to sleep hearing it every night for the rest of his life.

"It's not that I don't want -" He started, quietly, but once more Abby said,

"I know, Marcus," and stroked his hair. "But just so you know, for next time," Amusement crept into her tone, "I can prepare moon tea for myself. I am a healer, after all."

He released a huff of laughter and craned his neck to look at her, "Next time?"

She rolled her eyes, even as the lids were drooping in satisfied exhaustion, "Yes, sweetheart," She confirmed, and his heart skipped a beat at the endearment, "Next time."

Ensconced in the warmth of their shared bed and wrapped up in each other, by unspoken agreement neither of them mentioned aloud the reason they needed to be careful: the war looming on the horizon that threatened to tear them apart. They did not want to shatter the contented peace that had settled over them; the sweet afterglow that had them both surrendering quickly to sleep.

Marcus held Abby tighter and prayed that one day, perhaps, a child might be a blessing.


End file.
